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PEISMATICS 



BY 



RICHARD HAYWARDE 

Illustrated 

WITH WOOD ENaEAVINGS FROM DESIGNS BY 

ELLIOTT DARLEY KENSETT HICKS AND ROSSITER 



" And if it be a mistake, it is only so ; tliere is no heresy 

iu sucii liarmless aben-ations." 

Joseph Glanville, 



NEW YORK 
D APPLETON & COMPANY 200 BROADWAY 
AND 16 LITTLE BRITAIN LONDON 

MDCCCLIII n 






Entered, according to Act of Congress, m the year lRo3, by 

D. APPLE TON & COMPANY, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
Southern District of New-York. 



TO 



MY BROTHER DAVENPORT, 



NOW IN CALIFORNIA, 



Ct)i5 laok 



IS 



AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 



PKEFACE. 



A PREFACE is a happy medium between the author and the public. 
It is usually apologetic too, and therefore modest — like a veil ; I will 
not say how transparent. 

Gentle Reader, — 

I do not pretend to exhibit truth, clear and pellucid, but 
rather, as the title indicates, tinctured with imperfections. 

Life is many-hued, — 

" Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, 
Stains the white radiance of Eternity." 

The purest are not immaculate ; the impure, though double- 
dyed with guilt, have some tinge of humanity — some obscured indi- 
cation of divine origin ; we are all more or less prismatic. 

If there be one earnest, honest purpose beneath the strata of 



b PREFACE. 

superficial society in this country, it is the desire to ameliorate the 
condition of two classes — the rich and the poor. Perhaps the 
reader will discover some hints tending toward this vital subject, in 
the volume before him. If so I am rewarded. What if I fail ? 
Other minds, more comprehensive, will succeed. 

Servile prejudices, political and conventional, are gaining ground 
in our larger cities. Young America does not promise to represent 
the noble estate purchased for him by the blood of the Revolution. 
Instead of that sense of independence which befits the spirit of his 
age and race ; instead of cultivating what is manly and dignified ; 
instead of making himself familiar with letters and the arts ; and 
the political history of this, the greatest of republics ; he is daily 
becoming more emasculate ; less fitted to bear a part either as citi- 
zen, merchant, or legislator. 

This is not said or meant unkindly ; it is not a satire levelled at 
a particular class ; the subject is too serious ; at once too high, 
and too low for ndicule. But is it not true ? Is there not 
something better worth the attention of young men about town 
than acquiring a taste for petty bijouteries ; extravagance, and the 
means of gratifying it ; parading, like lackeys in the cast-ofi" habits 
of men of fashion, gaining from the society of the gentler sex not 
even the forms of polite courtesy, and indulging in a vocabulary of 
slang phrases, which indicate any thing but the man of refinement, 
of education; in fact, the gentleman? 

As to the other class, for whom, happily here, the portals of uni- 
vei*sal education stand wide open, there is greater hope; thank 



PREFACE. 7 

Heaven, among these exists a spirit more national ; loftier in its as- 
pirations, than that which obtains among their denationalized co- 
temporaries. I will endeavour to illustrate with 

A diamond fell among the grass, and when the morning came, 
behold ! around it innumerable dew-drops, sparkling with iridescent 
hght. Then scornfully it spake, being touched with envy, and said, 
'• Vainly ye glitter and please the eye of the beholder, while I lie 
here unnoticed ; a brief hour, and ye will vanish from the earth, 
but ages shall roll over me without diminishing my lustre." Then 
a low voice arose from the starry multitude : " Unhappy one ! ad- 
mired as thou art, wouldst thou still disparage the lowly and the 
unoffending ? Dost thou not grace the crown of the monarch and 
stud the sceptre of empire ? Dost thou not encircle the white arms 
of queens, and repose upon the bosom of haughty loveliness ? Yet, 
not content with thy lofty station, thou desirest to show thy contempt 
of those who have injured not thee. Know then, since thou hast 
sought it, the difference between us. Thou art brought forth 
with stripes and the unrequited labor of the slave ; we descend from 
heaven that the children of men may have respite and sustenance. 
Thou art the minister of crime, of cruel war, and oppression ; but 
prosperity and peace are the followers of our footsteps. Where 
thou art is pride, envy, and covetousness. Where we are, the voice 
of thankfulness arises from universal nature. Whether in the mine 



8 PREFACE. 

or in the casket thou art of the earth ; but we dwell in the glorious 
pavilion of the sun, and build the tinted arch of the rainbow." 

Then the breath of the morning came, and the dew-drops were 
exhaled to heaven, but the share of the peasant turned the clods 
upon the diamond, and he trod it under foot, and passed on. 

So much for the pervading hue of prism atics ; there are others 
less evident ; some of which let me explain. 

Americans are said to be the most thin-skinned people in the 
world : by way of a test, the articles on the habits of Irishmen and 
Scotchmen were written. I hope the motive \^all not be misunder- 
stood ; I could not afford to lose one of the many I claim as 
friends who represent either nation, by any ill-timed levity, that 
might be misinterpreted. But if by chance I do manage to ex- 
cite a Httle of that feeling in others which is said to be peculiar to 
my own countrymen, I may, emboldened by success, publish a geo- 
graphy, with the habits of Englishmen, Frenchmen, etc., eni;iched 
with illustrations. 

I was informed, some years after the story of the " Last Picture " 
had been published in the Knickerbocker Magazine, that it, or some- 
thing like it, was to be found in " The Disowned," by Bulwer, a 
novel I have never read. Still I concluded to republish it, as it was 
told rae, by an old lady, when I was a boy. She came from Cum- 
berland, in the north of England ; she had seen the picture and 
there is no doubt of the story being authentic. 

I would be wanting in gratitude if I neglected to acknowledge 



PREFACE. 9 

my obligations to those artists, my friends, who have so beautifully 
illustrated this volume. It was a voluntary offer on their part ; but 
for their suggestions it might, perhaps, never have been printed. 

In conclusion, I trust, these essays, which have afforded me so 
much enjoyment and employment in long winter evenings, when 
other duties were finished, will not be entirely disregarded ; not for 
my sake, but for the sake of all who feel, and all who need sym- 
pathy. 

Chestnut Cottage, March 5, 1853. 



CONTENTS. 



PAOB 

The Last Piotuee, . . . . . . 13 

The Beating of the Heaet, .... 21 

Aunt Mieanda, . . . . . . .25 

Hetabel, ....... 53 

Oeange Blossoms, . . . . . .57 

BuNKEE Hill : an Old-Time Ballad, ... 89 

A Cheonicle of the Village of Babylon, . . .95 

The Seasons, . . . . . . .117 

Old Books, , . . . . . . 121 

A Babylonish Ditty, . . . . . . 133 

The Fiest Oystee-Eatee, . . . . .137 

An Evening Keveey, ..... 147 

On the Habits of Ieishmen, ..... 151 

La Bella Enteisteoida, . . . . .157 

On the Habits of Scotchmen, , . . . .161 



12 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Lookjet: an Ancient Ballad, .... 171 

On Societies foe Amelioeating the Condition of the Rich, 175 

Wheee is the Holt Temple? , . . . 183 
Alliteeation, . . . . . . .185 

Album Yeeses, ...... 197 

The Lat-Figuee, ...... 201 

To , . 205 

My Boy in the Countey, ..... 207 

A Sonnet, .... . . 208 

Wit and Humoe, ...... 209 



THE LAST PICTUEE. 

" The spider's most attenuated thread 
Is cord, is cable, when compared with that 
On Avhich, at times, man's destiny depends." 

^^ nnHE loveliest thing in life," says a gifted author, "is 
-^ the mind of a young child." The most sensitive 
thing, he might have added, is the heart of a young- 
artist. Hiding in his bosom a veiled and unspeakable 
beauty, the inspired iSTeophyte shrinks from contact with 
the actual, to lose himself in delicious reveries of an ideal 
world. In those enchanted regions, the great and power- 
ful of the earth ; the warrior-statesmen of the Elizabethan 
era ; the steel-clad warriors of the mediaeval ages ; gorgeous 
cathedrals, and the luxuriant pomp of prelates, who had 
princes for their vassals ; courts of fabled and forgotten 
kings ; and in the deepening gloom of antiquity, the nude 



14 THE LAST PICTURE. 

Briton and the painted Pict pass before his enraptured 
eyes. Womerij beautiful creations ! warm with breathing 
life, yet spiritual as angels, hover around him ; Elysian 
landscapes are in the distance ; but ever arresting his 
steps, — cold and spectral in his path, — stretches forth the 
rude hand of Eeality. Is it surj^rising that the petty 
miseries of life weigh down his spirit ? Yet the trembhng 
magnet does not seek the north with more unerring fidehty 
than that "soft sentient thing," the artist's heart, still 
directs itself amid every calamity, and in every situation, to- 
wards its cynosure — perfection of the beautiful. The law 
which guides the planets attracts the one ; the other is 
influenced by the Divine mystery which called the universe 
itself into being ; that sole attribute of genius — creation. 
Few artists escape those minor evils wliich are almost 
a necessary consequence in an exquisitely sympathetic or- 
ganization. Fortunately, these are but transient, often 
requisite, bringing forth hidden facidties and deeper feel- 
ings, which else might have lain dormant. But iterated 
disappointments will wear even into a soul of iron ; sadh 
I write it, there have been such instances; but a few years 
have elapsed since the death of the lamented Haydon ; 
and later, one nearer and dearer, this side the Atlantic, 
was called to an untimely grave. 



THE LAST PICTURE. 15 

Not less true and touching is the tale I have to tell, 
although it relates to an earlier period ; — 

"• ^its only charm, in sooth, 



If any, will be sad and simple truth." 

In one of those little villages in the north of England 
which still preserve the antiquated customs and pastimes 
of past times, there lived, about a century ago, a young 
artist by the name of Stanfield. A small freehold estate 
barely sufficed to support himself and his aged grandmo- 
ther. They resided in a cottage entirely by themselves, 
and as he was an orphan and an only child, I need not say 
how dear he was to that poor old heart. The border bal- 
lads she would sit crooning to him long winter nights had 
been as eloquent to him as a mythology, and many a 
" Douglass and Percie,'' — many an exploit of '^ Jonnie Arm- 
strong,'' " Laidlaw," and " Elliott,'' adorned the walls of the 
cottage, depicted, it is true, with rude materials and imple- 
ments, but sufficiently striking to excite the admiration 
of the villagers, who wondered, not so much at the man- 
ner in which the sketches were executed, as at the fact 
that such things could be done at all. A beautiful rural 
landscape surrounded their home ; and a view of the 
Solway, the Irish sea, and the distant coa^ of Scotland, 



16 THE LAST PICTURE. 

doubtless had its effect upon the mind of the young painter. 
Many were the gossipings, during his absence from the 
cottage, over these early productions of his pencil, and dear 
to his aged grandmother the rude praises bestowed upon 
them by her rustic neighbors. 

At last the Squire called upon him. The meeting was 
delightful to both. The enthusiasm and innate refinement 
of the young man — the delicate taste, simplicity, and man- 
ly benevolence of the Squire, were mutually attractive. A 
commission to paint a picture was given to Stanfield, and 
a large apartment in the Manor Hall appropriated to his 
use. You may be sure he was untiring in his efforts now. 
Koom to paint — materials to use — studies on every side — 
patronage to reward — ^liappy artist ! Nor was the want 
of sweet companionship felt by him. A^ times, a lovely 
face startled him at his doorway. Sometimes music, 
" both of instrument and singing," floated up the broad 
staircase. Sometimes he found a chance handful of flow- 
ers resting upon his palette. A golden-haired, blue-eyed 
vision haunted his dreams, waking or sleeping. Happy, 
happy artist ! The Squire had an only daughter. Her 
name was Blanche. The picture was at last completed. 

It happened the great Sir Joshua Keynolds at this time 
paid the Squire a visit. Ah ! that young heart throbbed 



THE LAST PICTURE. * 17 

then, not less with dread than joy. No doubt it was a 
crude production, that picture, but youth, with all its 
misgivings, is full of hope, and the young artist, in spite 
of the wise admonitions of his patron, insisted upon con- 
cealing himself behind the canvas, that he might hear the 
candid opinion of the great painter. It is scarcely neces- 
sary to refer to the fact, that Sir Joshua was deaf, and his 
voice in consequence, had that sharpness usual in persons 
so affected. The expected day arrived. The Squire and 
his guests stood before the picture. A sweet voice, like a 
thread of gold, sometimes mingled with the praises of the 
rest. At last. Sir Joshua spoke. Stanfield listened intent- 
ly. He heard his picture condemned. Still he listened, 
his heart beating against his side almost audibly ; there 
might be some redeeming points ? Like an inexorable 
judge, the old painter heaped objection upon objection, 
and that too, in tones, it seemed, of peculiar asperity. 
Poor Stanfield felt as if the icy hand of death were laid 
upon his heart, and then, with a sickeifing shudder, fell 
senseless upon the floor. 

They raised him, — he recovered — was restored to life ; 
but what was life to him ? 

From that time, he drooped daily. At last his kind 
patron sent him to Eome. There, amid the eternal mon- 



18 THE LAST PICTUKE. 

uments of art, avoiding all companions, immured in his 
little studio, he busied himself steadily, but feebly, with a 
work which proved to be his last. 

It represented a precipitous cliff to the brink of which 
a little child had crept. One tiny hand stretched out over 
the abyss, and its baby face was turned, with a. smile, 
towards its mother, from whose arms it had evidently just 
escaped. That playful look was a challenge for her to 
advance, and she, poor mother, with that deep, dumb 
despair in her face, saw the heedless innocent just poised 
upon the brink, beyond her reach, and knew that if she 
moved towards it a single step, it too ivould move, to cer- 
tain death. But ^vith heaven-taught instinct, she had 
torn the drapery from her breast, and exposed the sweet 
fountain of life to her infant. Spite of its peril, you felt 
it would be saved. 

Such was the pictm-e. Day after day, when the artists, 
his friends, gathered at their customary meals, his poor, 
pale face was se^ among them, hstless, without a smile, 
and seemingly wistful of the end, when he might retire 
again to his secluded studio. One day he was missing. 
The second came, but he came not. The third arrived — 
still absent. A presentiment of his fate seemed to have 
infused itself in every mind. They went to his room. 



THE LAST PICTURE. 



19 




There, seated in a chair before his unfinished picture, they 
found him — dead — his pencil in his hand. 



THE BEATING OF THE HEART. 



HEAKT that beateth, trembleth, yearneth ! 
Now with grief and pain assailed, 
Now with joy triumphant burneth 
Now in sorrow veiled ! 
Moveless as the wave-worn rock 
In the battle's deadly shock, 
When the surging lines advance 
Doom on every lance ! 
Yet melting at some mimic show, 
Or plaintive tale of woe. 

Faint with love, of conquest proud. 
Seared with hate, with fury riven. 
Like the fire-armed thunder-cloud 
By the tempest driven : 
Hark ! the chords triumphant swell ! 
Floods on floods of raptures roll — " 



22 THE BEATING OF THE HEART. 



Sudden ! strikes the passing bell, 
Life has reached the goal. 



Though at times, Death, I cry, 

Ope the door, thy son entreateth, 

Though from Life I strive to fly, 

Still the heart-clock beateth ! 

No, not yet I wish for thee, 

Gaunt and pale, remorseless King ! 

Soon, too soon, thoult come for me 

O'er life triumphing. 

Glow and dance in every vein, 

Crimson cm'rent, ruby river. 

To thy source return again. 

As the teeming summer rain 

Seeks again the parent main. 

The all-bounteous giver : 

Beat, dear Heart, against my breast — 

Tell me thou art there again : 

Life and thee together rest 

In that hold of joy and pain ; 

Stronghold yet of life thou art. 

Restless, ever-working Heart ! 

Night comes, draped in shadows sombre, 
Morning, robed in light appears ! 



THE BEATING OF THE HEART. 23 

Minutes, hours, without number, 
Days, and months, and years 
Pass Kke dreams : yet still thou art 
Ever busy, restless Heart ! 

When his doom the Captive heareth. 
How thy summons, stroke on stroke, 
Tells the fatal moment neareth. 
Sounding like the heavy stroke 
Distant heard ere falls the oak ! 

How the maiden fain would hide 
Thee within her bosom white, 
Still against her tender side 
Throbs the soft delight ! 
Every pulse reveals the flame. 
Every fibre softly thrills. 
But how innocent the shame 
That her bosom fills. 



In the Hero, firm as steel. 

In the Virgin, soft as snow ; 

In the Coward, citadel 

Where the recreant blood doth go, 

Hiding from the sight of foe ; 



24 THE BEATING OF THE HEART. 

In the Mother's anxious breast, 
Who can picture thy unrest ? 
When her babe lies low, 
With the fitful fever burning, 
No relief — still restless turning 
Ever to and fro ! 

In the Bride what roixt commotion 
When the words " Be man and wife ! 
Thrill her with that deep emotion, 
Known but once in life. 

Priceless jewel ! hidden treasure ! 
All the world to thee is naught : 
Working loom of ceaseless pleasure, 
Weaving without stint or measure 
Woof and web of thought : 
Hive of life ! where drone and bee 
Struggle for the mastery : 
In thy never-ceasing motion. 
Like a great star in the ocean. 
Shines the Soul ! thy heavenly part, 
Throbbing, life-assuring Heart ! 



AUNT MIRANDA. 

"VTO matter what people might say of Aunt Miranda, 
^ Rowley and I loved her, not in spite of, but because 
of her fine stately ways, which were the natural result of 
a nice feeling of honor, that suffering had only rendered 
more delicate and sensitive. How often have we caught a 
glimpse of her tall, upright figure in church, with asperity 
written in sharp lines in every lineament, lurking, as it 
were, in the angles of her stiff black silk dress, and plait- 
ing and pointing the little frill that circled her neck, and 
thought how patient, good, and noble she really was, how 
much better at heart than many around her, who were 
considered kinder and more amiable, because they could 
assume the thin, specious gloss of conventional courtesy 
whenever it suited them. 



26 AUNT MIRANDA. 

There were great times when Christmas came, and 
Rowley and I had to wait until the younger ones had gone 
to bed, before we could steal around to Aunt Miranda's, to 
bring her to the house, with the great basket full of dolls, 
and jumping jacks, and tin horses, and cornucopias, and 
ducks that would cry "quaack" and open their bills, when 
you squeezed the patent bellows of white Idd upon which 
they stood. And then, if at any time in the year, would 
the old lady put on one of those sweet smiles, which Row- 
ley and I thought the most heavenly we had ever seen, as 
she filled the stockings of her favorites — little curly-headed 
Bell, and sturdy Harry, and poor Peter ; whom I believe 
she loved best, because he had a lame foot which was in- 
curable, and the handsomest face of all. 

Nor do Rowley and I forget how grand and formal she 
was with strangers, and how she never unbent herself be- 
fore Margaret, her handmaid, who had lived with her for 
thirty years and upward, and how Margaret loved her and 
looked u]) to lier ; and how, when a man came one night 
to see Margaret, what a sad foce the old lady had until he 
was gone ; and how, when Margaret came up with a plate 
full of api)les for us boys, the old lady said, " Margaret, 
never do you marry ! " and how poor Margaret burst into 
tears and said — "It was only a man from her father's which 



AUNT MIRANDA. 27 

were married already, and have four children — two boys 
and two girls." 

Rowley and I were cousins, but Aunt Miranda was his 
aunt, not mine, nor did I ever call her by that name until 
one Sunday afternoon, when Rowley took my hand in his, 
and went up to her as she was sitting by the front window, 
and said, with his eyes cast down, " Aunt Miranda, mayn't 
he call you Aunt Miranda, too ? " and the old lady brushed 
away the glossy brown hair from his forehead, and kissed 
it very softly, and then turned away and looked out of the 
window again, and I have called her Aunt Miranda ever 
since. 

It was difficult for Rowley and me to realize that wliich 
the old lady told us of at times ; of her grand parties, 
when she was young and gay, and her husband was one of 
the richest and handsomest men of his time ; of the costly 
dresses -she used to wear, and the jewels and rouge ; and, 
most difficult of all to imagine, of her card parties, when 
she would sit up until near morning, playing for money, 
and not inconsiderable sums either, to please her husband, 
who wished her to be as fashionable and brilliant as 
himself 

Rowley and I used to think, at times, the old lady felt 
some pride in recalling these scenes, when she was a bloom- 



28 AUNT MIRANDA. 

iiig bride, but she ended always with the sad story of 
wreck and ruin wliich followed ; of her gallant and hand- 
some husband dying of the fever, a banknipt ; and of her 
taking nearly all her own property to pay his debts (which 
she need not have done), until the last creditor was satis- 
fied ; and then Aunt Miranda was left with a slender pit- 
tance and an only daughter to begin the world anew. 

But of that daughter not a word had been spoken for 
many a year. Kowley and I could just call to mind a face 
possessed of such beauty as children remember like a 
dream, and perhaps never find again in life ; her name 
was no more mentioned by Aunt Miranda, nor did Rowley 
or I know any thing except that it was a mysteiy, not to 
be breathed, at home or abroad, to others or ourselves. 
We heard once of a Mrs. Dangerfeldt — that was all — 
whether living or dead we did not know, and did not dare 
to inquire. 

One day, when Rowley was lying dangerously ill with 
the quinsy sore-throat, I went to ask Aunt Miranda to 
come and see him, for he loved to have her by his bedside. 
The cellar door, in those days, was never fastened until 
night, and as it was Sunday afternoon, I knew Margaret 
was at church, so, without giving the old lady the trouble 
of coming to the hall door, I opened the cellar softly and 



AUNT MIRANDA. 29 

went down that way. There is something desolate in a 
lonely kitchen on Sunday afternoon, when the fires have 
died out, and the cat sits, looldng wicked and suspicious, 
amid the cold ashes on the hearth. . I know my footsteps 
were as light as pussy's own when I passed through, for I 
did not want to disturb the silence which reigned there, 
and so, ascending the narrow stairs, I found myself in the 
hall. The parlors were open — ^they too were vacant. 
Then it was, while wondering at the soUtude, I heard a 
sound in the upper room, so unlike any thing I had ever 
heard — not a cry of grief, or groan of pain — but a faint, 
inarticulate moaning, so different from a human voice, and 
yet so unlike that of an animal, that my very flesh crept 
with terror. My pores seemed to drink in the sounds as I 
stood there, dumb with indefinable dread, and some mo- 
ments elapsed before I could collect my thoughts. Then 
it came to me that Aunt Miranda might be in a fit, or 
something of the kind, and so, without waiting, I bounded 
up the stairs and thrust open the door of her apartment. 
There was a small black trunk upon the floor, open ; 
and scattered around it lay several dresses which had evi- 
dently belonged to some little child. But oh, the piercing 
lustre of those eyes which glared upon me as she rose from 
her knees when I entered ! That wild, terrible look, as if 



30 AUNT MIRANDA. 

it would blast me ! — 7, who had rashly ventured in upon 
the mystery which had been buried, as within a tomb, for 
so many years ! Her cajD was thrust back from her high 
forehead, and the thick black locks, mingled with gray, 
appeared to writhe around her fingers like serpents, as she 
came on ; her lij^s working, but uttering no sound, until 
her face was so close I could feel her hot breath upon my 
cheek — and then stretching forth her fingers as if to clutch 
me, her voice came forth in a fierce, passionate sob, and 
she fell forward, and rolled over at my feet. 

It was the most awful moment in my life, as I stood 
there with clasped hands, looldng upon the poor, senseless 
form before me ; instantly I heard a heavy step upon the 
stairs ; fortunately, it was the faithful Margaret who had 
returned, and the blood rushed to my heart with such joy 
when I saw her homely, good-natured face, that I well-nigh 
swooned with the sudden re\Tilsion. 

Some time elapsed before I saw Aunt Miranda again. 
It was at night, in my bedroom ; a few sticks were smoul- 
dering, and darting fitful gleams of Hght from the hearth, 
upon the looped up curtains of the bed ; flickering warmly 
within the folds of chintz ; and now and then brino-ino; to 
view a sickly array of smaU bottles on the mantel. Row- 
ley was sitting at the foot of the bed, and beside it, hold- 



AUNT MIKANDA. 31 

ing my fever-wasted hand in lier own, with the same sweet, 
angelic smile upon her face, which Kowley and I loved so 
much, was Aunt Miranda. I had been delirious for some 
weeks with the brain fever. 

Eowley and I loved each other dearly. We had had 
too many bickerings — too many little quarrels — too many 
heartfelt reconciliations — for either of us not to know that. 
So after we graduated (and Rowley had the valedictory), 
v/e commenced the study of medicine together, with Dr. 
Frisbee, and after that was over, put up our two narrow, 
black tin signs, with gold letters, on a very white window 
shutter, one under the other, in a secluded part of the 
town, where practice was plenty, and patients were poor. 

How many times Aunt Miranda came to visit us ! 
She seemed to know all that was going on among the poor 
folks in our neighborhood, although she lived in a distant 
part of the town ; and if she did not abate one jot of her 
dignity when with the poor, her efforts to relieve the suf- 
ferers never flagged ; there she was, by the bedside, with 
the same smile Rowley and I loved so much (that angelic 
smile), and often and often a fee was paid us out of her 
own pocket, when our services had been more arduous than 
usual. It was of no use to refuse it. Aunt Miranda had 
an imperative way with her, so lofty, we drd not dare to 



32 AUNT MIRANDA. 

contradict it. And her custom (if it might so be called) 
was worth more to us than that of all the rest of our pa- 
tients put together. 

It was a dreary night in mid-winter (how well I re- 
member it), when Rowley and I met at the door of our of- 
fice after the usual rounds among the sick. It was late 
too ; the only light %dsible was a sort of luminous halo 
which surrounded the cellar window of a baker, far up the 
street, who was preparing bread for the morning. Lamps 
there were none, but a moon was somewhere, which only 
made the gloom palpable the snow did not fall, but swept 
through the streets in horizontal lines, blinding and sting- 
ing " like wasps' tails," as the old watchman said around 
the corner. While we stood there knocking the snow off 
our feet, a large willow tree was blown down across the 
road, and a white ghastly sheet dropt with a loud noise 
from the roof of an adjoining house. Rowley and I were 
glad to get by the office hearth, on which a few embers kept 
a bright look-out among the ashes, and so laying on the 
wood we soon had a cheerful liickory fire. Still the wind 
growled and mumbled outside, ^vith the dreary accompani- 
ment of creaking signs and groaning trees ; sometimes it 
lulled for a moment, only to return wdth appalling violence 
— the house fairly rocked with it, and we could hear the 



AUNT MIEANDA. 33 

snow beating and sifting through the crevices of the win- 
dows. Tired as we were, we did not think of sleep, but sat as 
men sometimes will in great storms, telling dismal stories, or 
listening to the noises outside, or talking of the poor we had 
visited, many of whom were ill provided with shelter against 
such pitiless weather. So the time passed on beyond mid- 
night ; the wind by and by went down, but the snow kept 
falling softly and fast ; — I thought I heard a noise — hush ! — 
a muffled sound like a watchman's club in the distance — then 
another — ^then voices approaching, we heard heavy steps on 
our stoop, and a loud knock at the door. Kowley and I sprang 
to our feet in an instant, and putting back the bolt, saw three 
men, watchmen, bearing a body ; we assisted them in, they 
laid him (it was a man) upon our bed, which stood partly 
behind the office door ; he was not dead, but very nearly so. 
Upon examination, we found three wounds in the left 
temple ; the central one larger than the other two, but 
none of them more than the eighth of an inch square, nor 
much more than an inch apart — ^they were deep, however, 
as we ascertained by the probe. The largest wept a little 
blood with every pulsation ; the man was insensible, but 
his chest heaved strongly ; we knew he could not live long, 
in fact in the course of an hour his breathing grew fainter, 
and fainter — stopped : he was dead. 



34 AUNT MIRANDA. 

The fatal blow had been given with a weapon so diflfer- 
ent from any thing we could imagine, that we had a long- 
discussion as to the probabilities, as we sat there by the 
body alone ; for the watchmen had left us to see if they 
could follow the track of the murderer. We talked on in 
whispers : outside it grew into a dead calm, and now it 
was almost daybreak. 

" Hush ! " said Kowley, " there is some one on the 
stoop." 

We listened, — there was a faint tap on the window 
shutter. Kowley threw open the office door, stepped into 
the hall, and drew the bolt. " What do you want ? " — 
There was no answer, but I heard a step in the hall : a 
man walked past him, and entered the office. As I said 
before, the bed was partly hidden by the door, and as the 
man walked directly towards me, he did not see that which 
lay behind there, close to the wall, on the side opposite to 
the fireplace. 

He was a tall, and had been a muscular, man, but now 
worn down with sickness, or famine, or both ; a mass of 
brown hair fell from beneath his cap, and mingled mtli his 
bushy whiskers, which met under his throat ; his clothes 
were poor, miserably so ; there was no sign of a shirt at his 
neck, or around his broad, bony wrists ; yet I did not 



AUNT MIRANDA. 35 

know why, he did not seem a beggar or vagabond ; he 
had a proud, defiant look, that was far from asking any 
thing of the world — ^in fact, a man you might shrink 
from, but could not despise. 

" You are a physician ? " he said, in a slightly broken 
accent, G-erman, I thought. I bowed. " And," he con- 
tinued, placing his hand on his brow as if to recollect 
something — " yes — let me see — ^if you will go — I will take 
you there" — he uttered with a shar]3 emphasis — "myself 
Yet something may happen ; it is food, warmth, shelter, 
she requires, as well as medicines — ^take this, you^ for fear 
of accidents ! " He displayed a roll of bills which he 
held clutched in his left hand — " stay," he added, and 
taking one or two, which he thrust into an old ragged 
pocket, offered the rest to me. 

Just then, Kowley shut the office door. The man 
turned suddenly — such a look as he gave that bed ! There 
it lay — ^the jaws bound up — the white cerements soaked 
with blood from the temples, ghastlier, if possible, by 
the dull flame of the office candle, and the uncertain 
light from the fire. But recovering instantly, with a slight 
bow to me, the man said, " Come, you may save a life — an 
hour hence may be too late." 

I took my' cloak. He opened the door without looking 



36 AUNT MIRANDA. 

again toward the bed. As I passed on, Rowley caught 
my arm and whispered, " I suspect that man ; had we not 
better " 

"No," I rephed. "The dying woman first — that is 
something the law takes no cognizance of." So, wrapping 
my cloak closely around me, I followed. 

When I stepi^ed out into the street, I w-as surprised at 
the change ; the moon was now shining brilliantly in the 
heavens, and the hushed snow looked beautiful in her light. 
Every roof, wall, and chimney threw down a flat, black 
effigy of itself, in sharp, clearly defined shadow on that 
wliite, sparkling ground. Here and there a tree spread its 
delicate tracery against the sky ; carts, piled up Tsith snow, 
stood hub-deep in snow ; fences half-buried in snow ; piles 
of logs, with their black ends projecting from a pyramid of 
snow ; pumps, with beards of icicles, and crowns of snow ; 
snow everywhere, on eveiy thing, met the eye at every step. 
Absorbed as I had been with the events of the night, I could 
not help looking with admiration upon this beautiful scene, 
which I had come upon so unexpectedly. So, walking on in 
silence with my companion, we came close to a man before 
I was aware. It was one of the watchmen, who had gone 
to look after the track of the murderer. 

"Ah, Doctor — another call, hey ?" 



AUNT MIRANDA. 37 

'' Yes." 

" Waal, we ain't got onto the right scent yet ; Bobbins 
and Towsey has gone down to the Coroner's ; we tracked 
him way up beyond the burying ground, and then we kind 
o' think he must 'a doubled ; " (either it was imagina- 
tion, or my companion drew closer to my side) — " but he 
can't be fur off. Body down there yet ? " — He pointed 
toward the office. 
■ "Yes." 

" All right, I hope — dead, I 'spect, hey ? " 

" Yes." 

."Goodnight." 

I had a feeling of rehef when the watchman uttered 
these last words, which I echoed with all my heart. We 
passed the bakery, now paling its ineffectual fires, and 
struck into a narrow cross-street. It grew darker, for a 
cloud crossed the moon — we came to a blind alley or entry 
— ^my companion went in, and I. 

The snow had drifted into the alley some distance, but 
I soon found myself upon bare boards, rotted in the 
centre, forming a sort of gutter, in which my foot caught 
more than once as we passed through. Then we came to 
a narrow yard, with a high fence ; we went up an outside 
staircase, so old and flighty it trembled with every step ; 



38 AUNT MIRANDA. 

and then turned -into a dark passage of the attic through 
which we were obHged to grope our way. I must confess, 
I felt some trepidation to be alone vdth such a man, in 

such a place. " Duty — courage ! " I muttered. The 
words went straight to my heart, and I was reassured : 
we came to a door which my companion opened, and I 
found myself in a little room. 

• The cloud had passed from the moon, and her light 
shone full through the dormer ^vindow, casting the outlines 
of the casement down upon the floor, which was partly 
covered with snow that had blown through the broken 
panes. A bed, if bed it could be called, was in one corner, 
and as we entered, a figure sat up, and turned its face 
toward us and the moonlight. 

There have been moments in my life, (9-nd such, I be- 
lieve, is the experience of many,) when what was before 
me seemed the remembrance only of something seen before 
— as if the same thing passed over twice — as if one had a 
glim2:)se of .pre-existence, identical with tliis, but referable 
to life beyond the scope of memory ; more vivid than any 
dream, but more fleeting and mysterious. 

Such a feeling I had, when that face turned toward us 
and the moonlight. It Avas that of a woman. Long, 
black elf-locks coiled around a face, wasted, it is true, but 
still surprisingly beautiful. The brilliant hectic, which ac- 



AUNT MIKANDA. 39 

companies certain kinds of fever, was in her cheeks, her 
eyes were large, and from the same cause, lustrous ; she 
gave a smile of recognition, it seemed, which showed a row 
of white teeth, and suddenly turning, Hfted a bundle from 
the bed, which she rocked to and fro. 

" It is our little one,'' said the man, "wait here ; I am 
going for something to build a fire/' He turned, and then 
I heard his heavy footsteps as he descended the outside 
stairs. Frequent as had been my opportunities of seeing 
the condition of the poor, nothing I had met with could 
compare with the utter barrenness of that apartment. With 
the exception of the bed, which lay upon the floor (a mis- 
erable heap of ragged carpet), there was nothing to be 
seen ; neither table, nor chair, nor plate, nor cup, nor a 
single article to cook with ; the walls were black with 
smoke and dirt, but there was no vestige of a fire ; there 
was nothing in the room, but the rags, the woman and 
her child, and the snow. Yet to me it seemed a recollec- 
tion of something seen before. 

The man returned now with short pieces of firewood 
from the neighboring bakery, and a bright fire sparkled 
upon the desolate hearth. Then he laid a loaf tenderly by 
her side and said, " She has not tasted such as that for 
weeks — but what shall we do, now. Doctor,.^ " 

A young physician has need of practice among the 



40 AUNT MIRANDA. 

poor to answer such a question. He may acquire experi- 
ence enough in ordinary cases, to obtain a certain degree 
of skill in examining the diagnosis of a peculiar complaint. 
Sickness is, indeed, a sad visitant among those in comfort- 
able circumstances, but when it comes accompanied with 
penurj^, cold, and famine ; when the fever, or the pesti- 
lence, stalks among the helpless indigent, it is indeed ter- 
rible. Look at the records of the City Inspector, ye who 
have abundant means, and believe me, it is a lesson better 
worth learning than many a plethoric sermon you hsten to 
in your velvet-lined pew ! 

The woman now lay on the floor, motionless, in a sort 
of torpor, with her eyes partly open ; it did not require 
much penetration to discover the symptoms of that visita- 
tion known as the mahgnant scarlet fever. It had been 
prevalent in our neighborhood, and the cases were unusu-* 
ally fatal ; so I told him, as I rested on my knees by the 
bedside. He said nothing, but merely clasped his hands 
and pressed them very hard over his eyes. 

" Have you nothing," said I, "to close up those broken 
panes, and keep out this bitter cold ? " 

He took off his poor ragged coat, but I told him my 
old cloak would- be better, which he accepted thankfully, 
and stuffed it into the apertures of the casement. In 



AUNT MIRANDA. 41 

coming back, his foot pushed something through the heap 
of snow beneath the window. It was a piece of oak 
stick about five feet long, and a few inches in width, 
studded with nails driven through it, as if it had been a 
cleat or batten, stripped from some old house or box ; it 
was also broken at one end. He laid it hastily upon the 
fire, but it was so saturated with moisture it would not 
burn. I knew not why, but I watched with intense inter- 
est the flames idly curling around it. 

" How old is this child .^ '' I was looking at the wasted 
features of his Httle girl. 

" About four years ; our boy was fifteen, he is dead ; 
I could almost say — thank God." 

" She has not the fever I perceive — if I may take her 
with me, I am sure I will find for her a place of shelter. 
(I thought of aunt Miranda's.) To move your wife now 
would be fatal — ^we must make her comfortable here if pos- 
sible." 

He bowed his head slightly. " You can — you will at- 
tend to that, I hope," he said. " If I am called away, you 
have the money I gave you, which use as you think best." 

" Money ? you gave me no money," I replied ; " you 

offered it but I did not take it — do you not remember when 

. the office door shut, and you turned around so suddenly ? " 



42 AUNT MIRANDA. 

The man stared at me ^vith a ^vild unutterable look in 
his eyes, which made me shrink back ; he clutched his 
breast convulsively -^ith liis hand, threw open the door, and 
staggered out as if struck with a blow. Just then I heard 
footsteps on the outside stairs ; then a noise ; voices ; and 
a scuffle. I ran out ; two men, officers of police, had him 
by the arms, but he was swaying them hke reeds. Sud- 
denly one of his assailants shpped, and fell the whole length 
of the stairs ; in a moment he had lifted the other and 
thrown him over the rails, down, perhaps twenty feet, into 
the yard below ; and then T\dth a bound cleared it himself, 
regained liis feet, and dashed through the alley. I went 
down to assist the poUcemen. One was stunned by the 
fall down the stairs — in fact nearly dislocated his neck ; 
the other had sprained his ankle and could not walk. 

" He's paddled, Jimmy," said the man with the bad ankle. 

Jimmy, who was sitting up on liis end in the snow, 
assented to the truth of the remark by a short grunt. 

" That's the man. Doctor ; " growled the poHceman, as 
I assisted him to rise ; " he dropt a roll of bills in j^our 
office, which belonged to dizeezed. Also we found liis 
pocket-book empty in the street, and a piece of batten, 
with three nails, that fits the wo\^^lds. Where's that 
Barker ? " he continued. Barker hopped upon one leg to 



AUNT MIRANDA. 43 

the side of the staircase, and picked up the batten. I went 
up the stairs, took off the now partly-burnt oak stick 
from the fire, and found the fractured end fitted exactly 
the piece found by the officers. There was no doubt as to 
who was the murderer. 

It was now broad daylight. One of the officers took a 
survey of the room — the woman still lay asleep ; then he 
assisted his limping companion through the alley ; I was 
again alone, but Kowley soon joined me. After a brief 
recital of the events which had passed, I borrowed his 
cloak, wrapped it around the little girl, and leaving him 
with the patient, carried my light young burden toward 
the house of Aunt Miranda. 

Was it not strange that she, the proud, unbending 
Aunt Miranda, was the only one of all my acquaintances, 
with whom I could take such a Hberty ? In truth I felt 
as if I had been commanded by her to do what I was doing. 
Such a thing as her refusing to admit the faint, thin, 
ghostly little unfortunate, with its manifold wants — carry- 
ing in its veins, perhaps, a deadly pestilence, never entered 
my mind. I was not mistaken ; I remember now how 
gently, and yet how grandly she took the slight load of 
poverty in her arms — not holding it from, but pressing 
it to her breast ; how, an hour after, I found it wide awake, 



44 AUNT MIRANDA. 

and seated in her lap, comfortably clad in one of those 
dresses I imagined I had seen years before, on a certain 
occasion, when my boy's heart seemed shrivelling up with 
terror. I had told her the story of the man and his wife, 
and asked her ad\dce. She coincided with me that it 
would not do to remove the sufferer, but added, " we can 
make her room comfortable, I trust," and then in a stiff, 
precise sort of way — " Margaret and I will nurse the poor 
creature by turns. Has she no friends, no family 
connections here ? " she asked, after a pause. 

" None, I imagine ; surely if she had they would have 
some pity for her. Even the poorest might have spared 
something for such an abject." 

"I think," said the old lady, "I will go there now. 
Margaret ! my shawl and hat ; bring the muff too ; 
it is bitter cold. Let the man stop shovelling the 
snow from the walk ; give him three blankets and a 
pillow, and let him go with me. Do you go on before," 
she continued, looking at me ; " you walk faster than I." 
Then she turned to the child with one of those angelic 
smiles Kowley and I loved so much, and lifting it gently 
from her lap, laid it in a warm little nest she had made for 
it on the sofa. I gave her directions how to find the place, 
and once more was on my way towards my patient. 



AUNT MIRANDA. 45 

When I reached the miserable street in which she lived. 



I met Rowley. He told me he had procured an old black 
wench to act as nurse ; " but/' said he, " I fear it will be 
of little avail ; she has been delirious ever since you left, 
and calls in the most piteous way for her child — ^her ^Andy/ 
From what I gather, she must have eloped, or something 
of the kind, when very young. I never saw any thing- 
more touching than the way she stretches out her arms 
and cries, ' Forgive me, mother ; forget and forgive, oh my 
mother ! ' I believe too," continued Rowley, " they were 
not married at first, but a year or so after she ran away. 
I had some broth made for her, which she ate but httle of, 
putting it aside and calling ' Andy ! Andy ! here — my child, 
my child ! ' " 

" Andy," said I, " is a boy's name." 

" So it is," answered Rowley ; " I do not know how to 
account for it, but she evidently meant the little girl, for 
she kept feeling in the vacant place for her. Sometimes 
she would upbraid her, and say, ' You have learnt my lesson 
by heart, you wicked Andy ; but you are worse than I, for 
you began younger,' I gave her an anodyne," continued 
Rowley, " but it has had little effect upon her — poor thing ; 
she cannot live, I fear." 

While we were talking, we saw coming up the street. 



46 AUNT MIRANDA. 

ill the most lofty and dignified manner possible, Aunt Mi- 
randa, followed by the man with the basket and the blan- 
kets. Although her dress was always plain, and never costly, 
the old lady had such a way with her you could not mistake 
her for a resident of that quarter ; nor would you take her 
to be a relative, or an ac(^uaintance of the people there. You 
felt at once she was on a mission of some Idnd ; and yet 
there was nothing about her of the benevolent lady who 
might be vice-president of fifty auxiliary sewing societies, 
and who, by personal inspection, kept a sharp look-out that 
no impostor, in the disguise of a pauper, swallowed any 
crumbs that fell from the tables of the humane associ- 
ation for the relief of the meritorious indigent. There 
was not a drop of haughty blood in her veins, nor the 
slightest touch of condescension in her manner — ^vith her, 
it was one of two things, either real, heart-felt kindness, or 
firm, inexorable pride. 

When she came up, Kowley and I made her acquainted 
with the present state of our patient, and of her anxiety 
for the child we had spirited away. We also mentioned 
the fact of her speaking of her own mother, and hinted at 
the possibility of her having committed some unpardonable 
act ; such as an elopement \N^thout marriage, or the like, 
by wliich she had disgraced her family. We did not go 



AUNT MIRANDA. 47 

into details, however ; once or twice a shadow, as it were, 
passed over the face of Aunt Miranda. " Well, well," she 
said, rather sharply, " let us go on, let us go on, and see 
what can be done for her — poor creature/' 

I have read of officers, who, in the battle-field, pre- 
served the stiff, erect carriage of the parade ground, but 
my doubt about the truth of the story never entirely dis- 
appeared until I saw Aunt Miranda ascend that staircase. 
We reached the room — " Shall I leave these here ? " said 
the man who brought the blankets. 

" No — stay until I tell you to go," replied Aunt Miranda. 
He obeyed of course. 

If the room looked dismal by moonlight and early 
dawn, it was doubly so in the broad, open sunlight. The 
walls, begrimed with smoke, and stained with water, that 
had trickkd from the roof, were full of cracks and crevices ; 
here and there large pieces of plaster had fallen, exposing 
the laths ; the floor, no longer hidden by the snow, was 
spongy with age, and rotted away in some places, and the 
miserable heap which served for a bed, was a sickening 
bundle of mouldy rags and fragments of old carpet. " I 
never saw such misery," said Aunt Miranda, looking at me 
and clasping her hands. 

The poor old blear-eyed wench, who was rocking herself 



48 AUNT MIRANDA. 

over the fire, got off the stool she had brought with her, 
and offered it to Aunt Miranda. The old lady took it with 
the tips of her fingers, gave it a shake or two, and sat 
down in her lofty way beside the bed. The woman, lying 
with her face partly covered, partly turned to the wall, was 
muttering something to herself At last we could make 
out these words : — 

" The cunning minx when she looked up at me with her 
bright, wicked eyes, learned that secret then. She drew 
it from me as I suckled her at the breast ; drew it from me 
when a babe — I learned it, and she learned it. But she 
began earlier than I. Why not ? The son did so. But 
he died in my arms, poor boy, when his race was run. But 
Andy I shall see no more. Never, never. That's a lesson 
for mothers. Your boys are always your boys, but your 
girls are other men's. My mother ! my mother ! my 
mother ! Let her pull up the green grass from my grave, 
and trample on it, yet I will love her better than 77iy 
daughter loves me. Yes, yes. The sim dies and the day 
dies, but we keep close to the men we love. Let him beat 
me — let me scoop the crust from the swill of our neighbors, 
yet we love on. He stole me in the snow, and we'll die in 
the snow. There are the bells and the Bays round the 
comer ; off only for a frolic and a dance — ^but we never 



AUNT MIRANDA. 49 

came back. There she sits, with the light burning — waiting 
for her daughter — waiting — ^waiting. There she sits now, 
mother, mother, mother ! He had a sweet voice once ; oh 
the songs — the songs that won my heart ! " Here she sat 
ujD erect in the bed, and turned her briUiant eyes full upon 
Aunt Miranda. 

I had been watching that gothic countenance during 
the monologue of the poor creature, wrapped in her rags. 
I had noticed the gradations which passed over it — ^first of 
patient complaisance, then of pity, then of absorbed inter- 
est. But when those large bright eyes flashed upon Aunt 
Miranda, she started with such an instant, terrible look of 
recognition — with the history of a whole life of sorrow, as 
it were, written on her face in a moment, that it was abso- 
lutely appalling. I read it at once. The mystery had 
unfolded itself before me. That inexorable spirit ; those 
lineaments, saving the slight tremulous motion of the chin, 
rigid as sculptured stone ; those fixed dilated eyes, were 
those of the mother, who, without seeking for, had found, 
after seventeen years, in yonder squalid heap, her daughter, 
her only child, once her pride, her hope — now, what ? 

" Do not hurt me," said the poor creature, shrinking 
from her, " I will not harm you for the world." 

I saw the tremulous motion from the chin spread itself 



50 AUNT MIRANDA. 

over the whole visage of Aunt Miranda. Tears sprang from 
her eyes, her pride was unequal to this trial. The founda- 
tion gave way, then the superstructure fell — was submerged 
for ever, and above it rose the beautifid. rainbow of consola- 
tion. She took the squalor, the misery, the pestilence, the 
poor wreck of a life in her arms, and sanctified it with a 
mother's pity, and a mother's blessing. 

I felt at this time an uncommon moistening of the eye- 
lids ; and the man with the blankets managed to drop his 
basket, with a \dew probably of relie^g his mind. As 
for the poor wench, she was in a corner, and a paroxysm of 
tears. 

To tell how our patient recovered, how little Miranda, 
or " Andy," as we called her, budded and bloomed into 
womanhood ; how the body of Dangerfeldt was found in 
the river, near the Dry Dock, that fatal morning, would, I 
fear, not add much to my story. But Aunt Miranda grew 
in grace, her pride was gone, she became the meekest of 
the meek ; only upon two occasions, in after life, did she 
remind me of her former self : one was that of the mar- 
riage of Margaret, her handmaid, to the man with the 
four children (who had lost his wife, by the way) ; and 
the other was, when a sharp, prying, inquisitive little 
woman asked her, in a free and easy sort of way, ^^ if the 



AUNT MIRANDA. 51 

husband of Mrs. Dangerfeldt had not met with some ter- 
rible accident, or something of the kind, when he came to 
his end 7 " 

One day, a wet and stormy one I remember, the 24th 
of December, Aunt Miranda had bought a large turkey, of 
a huckster, in the market. She always bargained for 
every thing — -paid what she agreed to pay — and kept herself 
comfortably within the limits of her income. So she knew 
always exactly the state of her finances, which she kept 
not in a book, but in a long ash-colored silk purse. When, 
she came home she found the man had paid her two cents 
too much. So back to market goes Aunt Miranda, in a 
very nervous state, for fear the man might be off before 
she got there. Fortunately the man was there, to whom 
she returned the money belonging to him, but unfortu- 
nately she took a cold, from which she never recovered. 
It was more like the living, than the dead face, of Aunt 
Miranda, that which lay in the coffin, with the smile upon 
the face, Kowley and I loved so much — that angelic 
smile ! 




H E T A B E L . 



rpHERE'S a deep pond hid in yun piny cover 



I 



That's garhinded with rose-bh)om.s wild and sweet, 



Enwreathed with pensile willows, hanging over 
Green, bowery nooks, and many a soft retreat 
Where Hetahel and T did often meet. 



54 HETABEL. 

There the brown throstle sings, there skims the swallow, 
There the blue budded ash its foliage weaves 

From deep-struck roots, broidered with sedge and mallow ; 
Fair lies the pool, beneath its ridgy eaves, 
Blotted with waxen pods and ornate leaves. 

There woi-kless rests the mill, each withered shingle 

Lets through the sun-threads on the knotted floor ; 

There, where the village hinds were wont to mingle. 
Tall weeds upspring ; and in the cob webbed door, 
One sees plain written, "they shall come no more \" 

There the white cottage stands ! shadow'd and sullen, 
Its ruined porch with fruitless vines o'erclung ; 

In beds, and pebbled paths, the vagrant muUen 

Tops the rank briers, where once musk roses sprung, 
Heart's-ease, and slender spires with blue-bells hung. 

There, in that solitude, deserted, lonely, 
Closed in a little Eden of our own, 

Unvisited, save by the wood birds ; only 
Ourselves (sweet Hetabel and I) alone. 
Our very trysting place unsought, unknown, 

Wandered ; sometimes beneath the pine's dark shadow, 
Sometimes, at evening, when the mill's thick flume 



HETABEL. 



55 



w^ 




Trembled in silver ; and the distant meadow 

Was half snow white — half liid in sunken gloom, 
Even as our own lives — half joy, half doom. 



Half joy — half doom ! the blissful years are faded, 
And the dark, shadowed half is left to me ; 

15y grief, not time, my scattered hairs are braided 

With silver threads. And Hetabel ? Ah, she 
Sleeps by her babe beneath the cypress-tree ! 



ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 

T DOUBT whetlier any man, be he young or old, ever at- 
-*- tended the wedding of a young bride without a certain 
feehng of awe. To me the service appears more impres- 
sive than that of a funeral. The pall lies upon the poor 
pale effigy ; we listen to the words of hope and consola- 
tion ; the tributary tears fall as the mournful pageant 
moves on ; the tomb closes ; night falls around it ; and in 
the darkness and silence we turn from the dead, dumb, 
voiceless past, to seek new loves and new sympathies with 
the living. 

But a bride, in the morning of her days ; standing up- 
on the threshold of a new existence ; crowned like a queen 
with the virgin coronal, soon to be laid aside, for ever ; with 
the uncertain future before her ; repeating those solemn 



58 ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 

pledges, and assuming those solemn responsibilities which 
belong not to maidenhood ; robed in the vestments of in- 
nocence, and giving her young, confiding heart, into the 
keeping of another ; seems to me a more toucliing specta- 
cle than that denoted by the nodding plumes, the sad 
procession, and the toll of the funeral bell. 

There was more levity and love in Kowley's composi- 
tion than in mine ; at least they were more easily excited 
in him -than in me. He was always beside some pretty 
girl or other ; — at a party he would be smiling and chat- 
ting with, perhaps, half a dozen, w^hile I was only too happy 
if I could get into a corner with one. Once or twice I 
was reproved for trifling with the affections of certain young 
ladies ; "I had been too particular in my attentions '' they 
said. Trifling with affection I I trifle ! such a thing as 
anybody falling in love with me never suggested itself. If 
it had, a glance at the severe, homely face I was obliged to 
shave every morning, sufficed to put that conceit out of my 
head. Besides, the mere idea of that beautiful mystery 
called " a wedding," was enough to bewilder me. I could 
no more have asked Fanny Hazleton (the most intimate 
friend I had, except Rowley) to assist me in getting up 
some nuptials for the benefit of our friends, than I could 



ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 59 

have stepped upon the stage and played Eomeo to Fanny 
Kemble's Juliet. Yet the subject was a favorite one with 
Kowley and me as we sat by the office fire ; the difference 
between us was, he always associated it with some pretty 
girl of his acquaintance, but to me it was something illu- 
sive, and remote ; suggestive mainly of an ideal white veil, 
and an imaginary chaplet of orange flowers. 

One evening Kowley took some loose j)apers from the 
table. " Listen," said he, " and tell me who this reminds 
you of " 

" To gaze upon the fairy one, who stands 
Before you, with her young hair's shining bands, 
And rosy lips half parted ; — and to muse 
Not on the features which you now peruse, 
Nor on the blushing bride, but look beyond 
Unto the angel wife, nor feel less fond 
To keep thee but to one, and let that one 
Be to thy life what warmth is to the sun, 
And fondly, closely cling to her, nor fear 
The fading touch of each declining year. 
This is true love, when it hath found a rest 
In the deep home of manhood's faithful breast." 

" Now," said Eowley with a smile which poorly con- 
cealed a lurking disquiet, " who did you think of while I 
was reading ? " 



60 ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 

"Nobody/' I answered. "I was struck merely with 
the beauty of the verses." 

" Oh cousin, cousin ! '' and Rowley, turning his head a 
httle, looked at me askance ; " tell me ; did not a pretty 
young lady of our acquaintance come into your mind while 
I was reading ? " 

" No," I said, " who can you allude to ? " 

" A very pretty girl," answered poor Rowley, and added 
in rather a tremulous voice, " her name begins with an F." 

"Fanny Hazleton.?" 

Rowley nodded, — I thought he looked uncommonly 
serious. 

" Fanny Hazleton ?" I repeated, " why Rowley, she is 
the last person I would have thought of." 

" Are you serious in what you say ? " Rowley was very 
much in earnest when he put this question. " Tell me ; 
Do you mean what you say ? Are you not in love with 
Fanny — ^very much in love ? " 

" Well, Rowley," I replied, " since you have brought 
me to think over the matter, I am not sure but what I 
am." 

My cousin sank back in the chair, thxust his hand in 
his breast, which I perceived rose and fell with the tide of 
emotion, and sighed heavily. 



ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 61 

" And what if I do love her ? " I continued, " there 
are not many Kke her." 

Rowley cast a look at me of the most sorrowful acqui- 
escence. 

" But I am afraid Fanny's sentiments towards me, are 
not such as would induce her to place her happiness in my 
keeping." 

Here a burning stick of wood rolled from the fire almost 

to Rowley's feet. He did not move, so I took the tongs 
and put it back. 

" Rowley, what is the matter ? I was only bantering 
you. Fanny does not love me ; I am sure of that. With 
me she is too confiding — ^too sisterly. Come, cousin, since 
you question me I will question you. Are you not in love 
with Fanny — very much in love ? " 

He laid his hot hand upon mine, and pressed it very 
hard. Poor Rowley ! 

At this time the influenza was prevalent in our part 
of the town, sometimes attended with all the symp- 
toms of a severe biHous fever. I remember crawhng out 
into the warm May sun, after some weeks' confinement, and 
imprudently walking so far, I was obliged to get a carriage 
to convey me home again. Of course this little bit of un- 
professional practice was followed by a relapse, and it was 



62 ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 

almost the middle of June before I was again able to go 
about. By the advice of two physicians (Rowley and my- 
self), I took that most agreeable prescription " change of 
air" and found myself much recruited after a few days' 
sojourn at Saratoga Springs. 

There are few places more captivating to the eye than 
the breadth of greenery bounded by the spacious piazzas 
of the United States Hotel at Saratoga. In the "leafy 
month of June " it is peculiarly so. Leaves, sunshine, and 
greensward mingle harmoniously. There is none of the 
rush and excitement of fashion — that unhappy conse- 
quence of Eve's endeavor to make herself look a little more 
becoming. One loves to loiter around, drinking in the de- 
light placidly. It is stilly, very stiUy, at night ; and then, 
if perchance you pace the piazza with some pensive maid, 
or wander as far as the white temple of Hygeia, standing 
silent and beautiful in the moonlight, ten chances to one, 
you will ask her a momentous question, and the chances 
are about even she will wliisper " Yes" — ^if she love you. 

One afternoon, the cars sailed into the depot, and soon 
after a few travellers came through the broad gate at the 
end of the lawn. There were three ladies and a little boy. 
The young lady (for the others represented mother and 
aunt) carried a shawl upon her arm, and a little Indian 



ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 63 

basket by the handle, in the most graceful way possible ; 
I observed, also, she had a pair of full, dark eyes, radiant 
with lashes ; and a dimple that played upon her cheek like 
a sunbeam upon the water. 

There was something too, honest, open, and frank in 
her face, which you understood at once. It was at the 
same time pleasing, good-humored, and independent — I 
will not say how handsome. 

When the dinner bell sounded, and I took my usual seat 
at the table, there were four chairs turned down opposite, 
and what I hoped, came to pass — my vis-d-vis was the 
young lady with the dimple. All I remember of her dress 
was a very graceful line that, sweeping a little below her 
white neck, curved from one polished shoulder to the other, 
and in the centre of the wave was a large, a very large, 
aqua-marine breastpin, holding three little rosebuds, two 
white, and one pale red. Spite of all I could do, the aqua- 
marine breastpin and the three little rosebuds attracted 
my attention so much, I was afraid of giving offence by 
looking so often that way, when I heard the small boy ask 
his Ma for some champaigne. This indication of early 
viciousness not being gratified by Mamma, he repeated his 
request so often that, finding he was already a spoiled 
chicken, by way of diverting my thoughts from rosebuds 



64 ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 

and dimples, I whispered Andrew Jackson, who was busy 
with the crumb-brush, to take my wine and fill the young 
gentleman's glass quietly, when nobody was looking. This 
feat being performed rather adroitly, occasioned some sur- 
prise to Master Tom, when he looked around. " Where 
did this corne from ? " he asked, with eyes wide open. 

"I beUeve'' said liis sister, "you are indebted to the 
gentleman opposite ; " and then, with a degree of surpass- 
ing grace, she raised the glass, bowed shghtty to me, and 
touched it with her lips. 

Where the conversation began, and where it ended, I 
do not now remember. Master Tom was instrumental in 
bringing it on — then Mamma followed — and lastly, it was 
made bewitching by dimples and rosebuds. Saratoga, Ni- 
agara, and Trenton were the themes ; the odorous breath 
of June breathed through the window blinds, and at last, 
with my heart full of happiness, and my lap full of lint, 
I rose and bowed to the departing ladies. 

" You will go to Niagara, then, early in the morning ? " 

I bowed again. 

" I hope you will have as pleasant a journey as we have 
had ; " the dimple played a moment in the cheek — and I 
was left solus. 

I had promised myself a ride to the lake after dinner ; 



ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 65 

the horse was waiting at the door — and in another moment 
he was cantering with me down the broad avenue toward 
the spring. A little, black, petulant barb — prancing and 
dancing sideways, wrangling with the bit — in all respects 
in as good spirits as I was, on that happy afternoon. When 
we came back in the twilight, and turned the street at the 
side of the hotel, I happened to look up, and there, resting 
her head upon her hand, with a book — ^in a room which was 
nearly opposite to mine — ^was the fair rosebud wearer. At the 
same moment my wicked little barb swerved aside at some- 
thing, brought me with a crash against an awning post op- 
posite, and started up the street toward the stable, on a 
run. I believe, if it had not been for that friendly act of 
pinning me against the post, I would have been unseated. 
I looked again toward the window as I limped across 
the street, and caught one more glance, which was the 
last. 

After I had packed my trunk in the evening, for my 
early journey next day, I pulled it near the door, which I 
left ajar to air the room, for the weather was warm. 
When I returned, rather late in the evening, I found lying 
upon it, a souvenir ; there, as if they had been quickly and 
carelessly dropped, were three little rosebuds — two white, 
and one pale red ! 



66 ORANGE RLOSSOMS. 

I do not think I dreamed that night of Fanny 
Hazleton. 

Trenton, with its gorgeous waterfalls ; its lofty but- 
tresses and wide arcades of natural masonry ; its shadowed 
lapses of waters, here spreading placidly from wall to wall, 
there, washing broad levels of stone even and wide enough 
for a multitude of caniages ; anon, gathering into a black 
volume, deep, swift, and temble as death ; and then, 
springing from the sharp brink into the light, \\dth its fall- 
ing tide of amber and sparkling crystal, induced me to 
lingerlong and lovingly. 

How often, after nightfall, did I descend the steep 
staircase, alone — ^for the grandeur of Trenton is felt most 
at night — and looking up beyond the enormous walls, hid 
in deep shadow, behold the blue woof of the sky, and the 
mysterious stars gazing down into the abyss. Then are 
the voices of the waters most audible ; even at a distance, 
amid the shrill and ceaseless chirjD of the cicadaa in the 
trees, amid the whispering echoes, and the rustling leaves, 
blending and deepening ; with all, and above all, rises the 
melancholy anthem ; the solemn doom-tones of Trenton ! 

And in that solitude my thoughts turned ever home- 
ward, and my thoughts were of Rowley^ and Fanny 
Hazleton. 



ORANGE BLOSSOMS. ^\ 

In past yearSj it was a day and night's journey from 
Albany to Buffalo ; passengers were apt to loiter in the 
towns by the way. An old gentleman who was in the cars, 
stopped, as I did, for a day, at Syracuse ; we fell into con- 
versation : he intended to stay a day or so at Eochester. 
That was my intention also. "And Buffalo as well .^ '' 
" Yes." We agreed to travel together. 

I do not know if travelling be apt to make one more 
observing than usual, or whether the mind, absolved from 
its daily cares, interests itself in surrounding objects for 
want of its customary employment. Certain it is, as we 
journeyed on, I was more attracted by seeing a white hand 
holding a book in front of me, than I ever had been before 
by a like object, though Fanny Hazleton's was as white as 
it, or any other. The white hand raised the car window 
sometimes, but the car window would slide down again. 
So, as the white hand did not apply the remedy, that is, 
the loop, to keep the vexatious window in its place, an- 
other hand, less white, looped it up to save trouble. " I 
was just going to do that myself," whispered my elderly 
companion. 

If the glimpses I caught of the white hand while in 
action were agreeable, when the book was laid aside, and it 
reposed upon the back of the car seat, within reach, it was 



68 ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 

absolutely absorbing. It was white as a blanched almond, 
and as round. The fingers melted into sunset at the tips. 
I felt as if I could snatch it up and run off with it. I 
forgot all about Fanny Hazleton, the dimple, and the three 
rosebuds. I was haunted of a white hand. And I saw my 
elderly companion glistening at it through his spectacles. 
At last it moved slightly, then adjusted a pretty French bon- 
net, and a round, auburn ringlet, like burnt gold, fell down 
and danced upon her shoulder. Patter ! patter ! rain against 
the panes ! The white hand undid the loop, and then it lay 
in her lap. My elderly companion leaned forward a little 
— ^probably to see how it looked beside the other one. 

Genesee Falls is a pleasant divertisement between the 
larger dramas of Trenton and Niagara. Amid these 
grander outhnes, any work of man, any thing but primitive 
nature, would be strikingly incongruous, but I am not sure 
the white torrents from numberless mill-flumes around the 
falls of the Genesee do not enhance its beauty. But the 
lower falls, unshackled by machinery, are dreamy and de- 
licious ; and as I plucked a wild flower from the cHff, I 
thought again of home and Fanny Hazleton. 

I was seated on the porch of the hotel, in the cool eve- 
ning, with my friend, when a carriage stopped before it, 
and a gentleman alighting therefrom, handed out three 



ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 69 

ladies. The last appeared to be slightly lame. The hand 
which rested rather heavily for assistance upon the arm of 
the gentleman, was that which has been slightly alluded to. 
" I shall want you in the morning to take us to the cars/' 
said the gentleman to the coachman. 

" What is the matter.^ '' inquired my elderly friend of 
the driver, after the party had gone in. 

" Sprained her ankle ! '' promptly responded the man. 

Now, a beautiful woman, meeting with an accident, is 
always sure to awaken the tenderest solicitude of benevolent 
old gentlemen. My companion was not an exception to this 
peculiarity. He did inquire, and very anxiously too, of the 
gentleman who escorted the ladies, whom he met in the 
course of the evening, as to the extent of the disaster. 
Fortunately, it was not a serious matter. 

Three lovelier women never travelled together since the 
invention of railroads, than those who were seated next 
morning in the cars, on their way to Buffalo. 

The smallest one of the group was married ; her compan- 
ions were single. Such sweetly-brilliant eyes as the first 
turned upon her husband, who sat by her side ; and then 
the others — ^tall, and moulded with all of nature's cunning, 
— each setting off each — such dark lustres beamed beneath 
the long lashes of the Brunette ! Such tender witchery 



70 ' ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 

was half hidden in the full hazels of the Blonde ! and in 
the lap of the latter, huried in the soft folds of a cambric 
kerchief, was the hand, ungloved ; Uke a large blanched 
almond ; and beside another as white. 

We arrived at Buffalo in the evening, and beheld the 
thin sickle of the new moon uprising from the broad ex- 
panse of Lake Erie. Next morning, at half-past eight, 
when we took the cars for the Falls, the white hand was 
leaning upon the arm of the gentleman as seen aforetime. 
How I wished it had been my arm ! We move off ; objects 
of interest begin to multiply ; Black Kock, and opposite 
the remains of Fort Erie, famous for the sortie in the last 
war. Wliite-hand points to the place. Tonawanda and 
Grand Island, which once promised to be the new Canaan 
of the Israelites. Then through the forest, and emerging, 
we come again upon the river, and old Fort Schlosser, and 
the scene of the burning of the CaroHne. " Durfee was 
shot near where the post stands," says the conductor. 
White-hand points it out. Now we see Navy Island, and 
the white caps uplift their crests above the rapids. Nearer 
and nearer we come — ^house after house glides in view — the 
cars stop. 

Where is Niagara ? 

I spent the rest of the day at the Falls, and when I 



ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 71 

returned in the evening, found my travelling companion 
(juietly smokiiig, and in conversation with the gentleman 
upon whose arm had rested the white hand. 

I believe young men once were more modest than they 
are in these degenerate times. Certain it is, I had rather 
avoided than sought the acquaintance of the gentleman to 
whom I was now introduced. Not but what I desired it. 
But the very idea of being intrusive there, made me shrink 
and blush with shame. 

" You have been studying the Falls, I presume ? " said 
the gentleman, who was a Virginian, as I soon after dis- 
covered ; ^' we missed you at dinner. Would you have 
any objection to make one of our party ? We propose to 
pay a first visit early in the morning." 

Oi- course I had no objection, and frankly told him so. 

" We would like to start at five o'clock." 

I bowed. 

Then we discoursed of other matters until bed-time, 
when I fell asleep, full of happy dreams of the morrow. 

To tell of that early ride in the leafy month of June, 
around Goat Island ; how we ascended the Tower, and 
descended the Biddle staircase ; how fearlessly those beau- 
tiful ladies ran out to the very end of the Terrapin bridge ; 
how, after breakfast, we visited the Church of the Tusca- 



72 ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 

rora Indians (for it was Sunday), and saw the old squaws 
come in barefooted, fold themselves in their blankets, and 
go to sleep just like any other christians ; how we looked 
down at the whirlpool, and saw the place where a soldier 
had leaped two hundred feet into the trees below, and was 
not killed ; how we crossed to the Canada side, and went 
on Table Rock, and under the Horse-shoe fall ; how we 
saw the gray cloud form from the mist, and slowly sailing 
aloft, catch at last the beautiful tints of morning upon its 
shoulders ; how we visited Lundy's Lane, and Chippewa, 
and the clever reply of the Irish driver, who, when he was 
asked the question whether the Americans or the British 
were successful at Lundy's Lane, answered, as he glanced 
around the car, in which were some of Her Majesty's offi- 
cers, " there niver was such a fight since the beginning of 
the wurrld, but I belave they were about aquil ! " I say, 
to repeat all this would probably be less interesting to the 
reader than it was to me. But the white hand did some- 
times rest upon my arm, nor was the mind of the fair Vir- 
ginian less lovely than her outward adornments. So 
passed the happy days and evenings beside the Thunder- 
Water. 

Fanny Hazleton faded into the remote. Bridal veUs 
and orange blossoms inten-upted my fancies — but they were 



OKANGE BLOSSOMS. 73 

associated with scenes in which I appeared merely as a 
spectator. I thought of a white hand, given lo^dngly and 
confidingly to another. I saw the ring glitter between the 
beautiful fingers. I pictured to myself some unworthy 
representative of manhood, mnning a prize whose priceless 
value he could neither understand nor appreciate. As the 
day of departure drew near, I felt sadder and sadder. It 
came at last. The stage for Lewiston was at the door. I 
simply bowed farewell to the ladies, with as much calmness 
as I could muster. But the fair Virginian rose and said, 
" I must shake hands vdth you, and say how much I am 
obliged to you for your kindness." Then — for the first 
time — did I touch that beautiful hand ; and then, with a 
heart as heavy as lead, I climbed into the stage, and was 
soon rolling over the long and weary path that led towards 
home. 

There is one cure for sadness ; a prescription, infallible 
for all but the poverty-stricken. If you are in comfortable 
circumstances, and withal dissatisfied with your lot — go 
among the poor. If you are neglected by those whose 
society you covet, or your aspirations are beset with disap- 
pointments — go among the poor. If your strivings to be 
better only make you a mark for vulgar natures, if detrac- 
tion, envy, and malice induce you to fancy life a burthen, 



74 ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 

still — go among the poor. See what misery is — before you 
yourself claim to be miserable. Abandon fruitless sympa- 
thies, confined only to one, and plant them where they are 
most needed. My life for it, you will be wiser, nobler, 
happier. See what wretchedness really is, before you con- 
sider existence as a disease, which, but for the future, 
would be happily alleviated by the pistol or the knife. See 
if you can come from the abodes of helpless indigence, and 
repeat, " I have nothing to live for." And even if you 
nourish a hopeless passion, if fortune, or position inter- 
pose, or if the one you love love not you, still I repeat — go 
among the poor ! The visit will give you strength and 
consolation ; if you are rich in love, behold the means of 
employing it where the returns will be still richer. 

This philosophy was the result of my visit to Niagara. 
And now to Rowley and Fanny Hazleton. 

That my cousin was very much admired by the young 
ladies was unquestionably true. His handsome face and 
figure might have inspired a passion, even had he not been 
possessed of better attributes. But with enough to make 
almost any one vain, I never detected that element in 
Rowley's composition. If he chatted familiarly with the 
])retty girls around him, it was because he enjoyed their 
society, and his honest, manly, straightforward nature 



ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 75 

never suspected any harm in that^ or believed it could 
awaken envy in others. But Fanny Hazleton was rarely 
found in this merry circle ; in fact, she kept aloof from my 
cousin, and much as he loved her, what with her refusing 
to dance, sometimes for a whole evening, and what with 
those engagements he felt bound to make with others, for 
fear of giving offence, there was very little show of atten- 
tion to her on his part ; and if Fanny had a secret par- 
tiality for him, no one had been shrewd enough to discover 
it. I must say, / preferred her society to that of any of the 
rest ; she was so noble, sensible, and womanly ; there was 
so much in confidence between us, and so often was I be- 
side her at these little evening parties, that people some- 
times hinted, " that Fanny and a certain person, one of 
these days, would be sending around cards, and bride's 
cake/' 

But Rowley knew better than that ; and Fanny only 
laughed at the story, and told it to me. . 

My cousin's passion for Fanny was very much hke the 
attraction of the planetary bodies ; it revolved around, but 
never approached its object. To procrastinate the momen- 
tous question, to Kve suspended, hke Mahomet's coffin, 
between heaven and earth, is a part of the history of every 
one who loves. Eowley put it off from time to time ; but 



76 ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 

tlie arrival of a gentleman in the Havre packet brought 
the affair to such a critical pass that my cousin had to 
speak, — but we will come to that by and by. 

Two young ladies, who figured occasionally at our cote- 
ries, had a brother, younger than themselves, whose absence 
in Europe had been the constant theme and staple of their 
conversation, at all times, and in all places. First, we 
were given to understand, he was brimful of talent, and 
immensely hterary ; then, he had been bearer of dispatches 
out, and his services would probably be required by the 
government for something else as soon as he got back. 
The accounts of his scholarship, by the Misses Bulhvinkle 
(his sisters), threw a shadow upon the fame of Erasmus ; 
and the fire of his poetry was at least equal to Lord By- 
ron's, if not superior. Then he had the kindest heart for 
every body, he was so good, so charitable ; one sewing so- 
ciety had absolutely given up its meetings until his return ; 
besides, he could fence in a superior manner ; in fact, so 
fond was he of that pastime, he actually taught Miss Bull- 
winkle the elder to handle the foils, that he might keep 
himself in practice ; and — in making a pun ! " Oh," said 
the sisters in a breath, " if you could hear liim make a 
pun, you would laugh fit to kill yourself ! " 

Of course the anival of such a prodigy caused no little 



ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 77 

flutter. We were invited to Fanny Hazleton's on Friday 
night, and every body went to meet Mr. William Bull- 
winkle. 

I had been visiting a patient that evening, and did not 
reach Mrs. Hazleton's until late. When I entered the 
rooms, I was promptly carried forward, and introduced to 
the man of genius without delay. He was the centre of 
an admiring circle, and no doubt had just uttered some- 
thing oracular, for his hands were clasped together, and he 
was peering around in the faces of his audience, as if he 
would say, — that's so — isn't it ? " He had a shining, bul- 
bous forehead, rather scantily thatched with blades of hair ; 
his face, small, meagre, and yet vulgar, was adorned with 
a pair of short, rusty whiskers, and a rag of a moustache ; 
in all respects not what one would call a face eminently 
prepossessing. As for his figure, it was evidently made 
up. But in the rapid glance embracing all this, I had 
taken in another person, whose attitude and expression put 
me at my wit's end. It was Fanny Hazleton. So ab- 
sorbed was she with her guest at the moment, she scarcely 
noticed me. She seemed to hang upon his words as if their 
lingering sweetness still pervaded the atmosphere. I looked 
around for Kowley. Pale and silent, my cousin was alone 
in a corner, playing with the tassels of the sofa cushion. 



78 ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 

" Thus the struck deer in some sequestered part, 
Lies down to die, the arrow in his heart." 

" Why Kowley ! what is the matter ? " 

" Notliing at all," answered my cousiiij ^' I do not feel 
very well/' 

If Mr, William Bullwinkle's reputation had not already 
preceded him, that evening would have established it. He 
had been every where, seen every thing, and met ever}' 
body. He brought meerschaums and metaphysics from 
Germany ; the graces and a correct pronunciation from 
Paris ; a consummate Joiowledge of art from Italy ; besides 
an accordion, and a watch, not larger than a Lima bean, 
from Geneva on Lake Leman. 

" My intercourse with the aristocracy of England never 
allowed me to breathe there, what I am now about to tell 
you in confidence," said Mr. William Bullwinkle, pulling his 
rag of a moustache over his under lip ; but when I was 
presented to the Queen, my keen eye of observance de- 
tected a slight tremor in Her Majesty, and when I kissed 
her hand I am certain it trembled a little. I also caught 
her eye afterwards, at the opera, which she withdrew at 
once ; I am sure of this, for I saw it plain as day, through 
my lorgnette. But not wishing, as an American, to be 
mixed up with any scandal of the court," he added, dnun- 
ming upon his cheek with his fingers, " I took leave of the 



ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 7l) 

white cliffs of Albion sooner than perhaps I otherwise might 
have desired/' 

The expression upon my cousin's face, while Mr. Bull- 
winkle delivered himself in this gay and festive manner, 
was absolutely fiendish. 

Not so with Fanny Hazleton. During the rest of the 
evening, she kept close by the side of her guest, and at 
parting, when the sisters Bullwinkle helped their brother on 
with his coat, and tied the worsted around his neck, her 
fair fingers, as if emulous of the duty, re-tied it, to keep 
htm comfortable. 

. " How did you like Mr. Bullwinkle ? " said I to Row- 
ley, as we walked towards the office. 

" He's a perfect jackass ! " answered my cousin with a 
burst of indignation. 

" Did you hear him make a pun ? " 

" Oh ! him, yes ; half a dozen." 

" Any of 'em good ? " 

" Good ? — immense ! "' this was uttered in a tone in- 
tended to be cool and sarcastic in the highest degree. 

" What of his Hterary ability ? " 

" Chaff ! chaff ! a literary chiffonier, who hooks out of 
the mire decayed scraps of learning, and. thinks them won- 
derfully fine in the new gloss he puts upon them." 

" He has written a great deal." 



so ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 

'' Yes, no doubt ; his fecundity is astonishing ; I 
should call him a literary rabbit/' Tliis was terribly 
bitter. 

" What is the matter, Eowley ? " 

" Nothing at all.'' 

" They say he fences beautifully." 

"7 would like to try Mm ivitJi a small-sword." " 

If Fanny Hazleton's conduct surprised me on that 
Friday evening, what did I think of it when a few weeks 
had rolled by, and her acquaintance with the ci-devant 
Bearer of Dispatches became strengthened by time ? At 
every evening party, Mr. Bullwinkle was her escort ; if she 
danced at all, which she did but rarely, Mr. Bullwinkle 
was her partner ; if she went to a concert or the theatre, 
there was Mr. Bullwinkle as well. Meantime, Kowley, 
instead of being the gay, good-humored cavalier, the life 
and soul of the social circle, he used to be in old times, 
was now downcast and spiritless ; following Fanny with 
liis eyes every where, yet scarcely venturing to address her 
at all ; a shadow of his former self ; no longer an object 
of adulation, but the subject of pity, or ridicule, or both. 
This will never do, my cousin ! 

Eowley's mother at this time issued cards of in\dtation 
for a small party, to be given in honor of her niece Isabel 



OKANGE BLOSSOMS. 81 

Bassett, who had just arrived from Baltimore. Bell Bas- 
sett was a sprightly, amiable girl of about twenty ; exceed- 
ingly pretty withal, and as witty and quick as she was 
good-natured. She was engaged to a gentleman of her 
native city, but this was a secret known only in the familj^ 
We had been very good friends, and soon after her arrival 
I made her acquainted with the unfortunate position of my 
cousin's affairs. The result was, after several consultations, 
a plot, the success of which mainly depended upon my cou- 
sin Eowley. 

" Do you remember," said I to him one day, " that 
scene in Cooper's novel, where the prairie is on fire, and the 
means by which the old trapper. Leather Stocking, saves 
himself and his companions from the terrible fate which 
threatens them ? " 

" Yes," — my cousin paid little attention to what I was 
saying. 

" Do you remember what Leather Stocking says on that 
occasion ? " 

"No." 

" We must make fire fight fire ! " 

"WeU, what then?" 

" Fanny Hazleton — " 

"Well." 
4* 



82 ORANGE BLOSSOMS.. 

" Pretends to like Mr. BuUwinkle." 

" More than pretence, I fancy." 

'' We shall see." 

"How.?" 

" You must fall in love with Bell Bassett. 

" Nonsense." 

" And Bell is already prepared to be dreadfully in love 
with you." 

" What are you talking about ? " 

" Something that concerns you. Listen. Fanny Hazle- 
ton either does, or does not, love this literary chiffonier. 
If she do not, then you may yet win her ; but if you were 
to propose at the present time you would only be certain 
of one thing — " 

" A refusal ! " ^ 

"Prompt. If you gain her, it will not be by coming 
like an abject, now. She has too much spirit herself to 
overlook the want of it in you. You must stand with her 
on level ground. You must once more become ga}^, light- 
hearted, cheerful. You must convince her that such a 
thing as this Mr. Bullwinkle could not, by any possibility, 
give you an uneasy thought, where she is concerned. If 
lier apparent liking for him be serious, it is enough to 
awaken all your pride and contempt. Do you think him 
more worthy of her than yourself ? " 



ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 83 

"I do not think him capable of feeling as I do towards 
Fanny." 

^* A man made up of pretence — " 

" And meanness — " 

" Spoiled by those foolish sisters — " 

" A milk-sop." 

" Who knows as much about poetry as a cat does of 
astronomy — " 

" The jackass." 

" Not a thing that is genuine about him — '* 

" Except his conceit." 

" And he to aspire to Fanny Hazleton ? No, no, Row- 
ley, I do not, cannot believe she entertains a thought of 
ever having such a man. Come now, do you believe 
it.P" 

" I do not know what to believe." 

" Then we must find out what to believe. We must 
get at the true state of the case. Put yourself in my hands 
— show every attention to Bell Bassett — treat Fanny po- 
litely, very politely, but as if her actions did not weigh 
upon your heart a feather. Then we will soon find out 
what is best to be done." 

" Impossible. I cannot be guilty of duplicity." 

" Do not make up your mind too hastily." 

" I am resolved." 



84 ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 

And so ended my conference with Rowley. 

The party cajne off in due time, and there was Fanny, 
accompanied by Mr. BuUwinkle, whom she had asked to 
wait upon her. This was rather unexpected, as the fami- 
lies did not visit. Rowley was pale with anger, his eyes 
sparkled with indignation for an instant, and then he was 
perfectly cool and self-possessed. He never appeared so 
well as he did then, so graceful and dignified. I saw 
Fanny once or twice looking at him quite intently. But 
the chief object of interest that evening was cousin Bell. 
She was one of those miraculous creatures who seem to 
possess the power of creating as many charms as the occa- 
sion may require. This evening she was be\vitching. 
Fanny Hazleton was completely eclipsed. Rowley had 
given Bell a little locket which she wore in her belt, and 
took good care to whisper one or two, that it was the gift 
of her cousin. Then she was by his side whenever an op- 
portunity presented itself ; she petted him ; got liim inter- 
ested in old stories of the times when they were children ; 
followed him with her eyes wherever he went ; sat down 
disconsolate when he danced with any other person ; in 
fact, acted with such consmnmate skill, it created just 
what she wanted — and that was — a great deal of sur- 
mise. 



ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 85 

Bell sang very prettily ; her voice was of that sympa- 
thetic kind, more admirable and rare, than those whose 
chief excellence consists in having a good natural organ 
skilfully cultivated. She had just finished a little Italian 
air when I overheard Mr. Bullwiiride observe, in his face- 
tious way — 

" Oh, very good, very good. I suppose she sings in 
EyetaHon because she's afraid to trust herself with the 
English. It is better to run the risk of mispronouncing a 
language we don't understand, than to take that risk with 
a language we do." 

If my thoughts were at all translated by the look I gave 
Mr. Bullwinkle, when I heard this specimen of his wit, I 
am sure he could not have felt much complimented. He 
laughed, however, in a very silly way, and took no notice 
of it. As for Fanny, she blushed deep scarlet. 

It was now Rowley's turn to sing, for Bell would 
take no denial ; so he began that famous old song, by 
Greorge Wither : 

" Shall I, wasting in despair, 
Die because another's fair ? 
Or my cheeks look pale with care 
Because another's rosy are ? 
Be she fairer than the day, 
Or the flowery meads in May ; 



86 ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 

If she be not so to me, 

What care I how fair she be ? " 

Fanny's eyes rested on her lap — the blush deepened. 

" Shall a woman's virtnes move 

Me to perish for her love ? 

Or, her weU-deservings known. 

Make me to forget my own ? 

Be she with that goodness blest, 

Which may merit name of ' best ;' 
If she be not such to me, 
What care I how good she be ? " 

The bouquet in Fanny's hand trembled as if a little wind 
stirred the flowers. 

" Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 

I will ne'er the more despair ; 

If she love me, this believe 

I will die ere she shall grieve. 

If she slight me when I woo, 

I will scorn and let her go ; 
If she be not fit for me, 
What care I for whom she be ? " 

Mr. BuUwinkle's lamp flickered in the socket, and 
finally went out. Fanny Hazleton saw only one person in 
the rooms, and that was my cousin Rowley. But the story 
is not yet told. 



ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 87 

Bell made so many engagements for her cousin^ was so 
often with him at the balls, concerts, parties ; that the 
" surmise " grew into a general belief 

One day I received a note. It was from Fanny Hazle- 
ton. A poor family, in great distress, had a sick cliild, and 
she wanted me to prescribe for it. " As I do not know the 
number of the house," it said, " call for me and I will go 
with you. P. S. Come yourself" 

I did prescribe for the sick child, and then walked home 
with Fanny. 

" Your cousin is going to be married ? " she said in a 
tremulous voice. 

" Who says so ? " 

" Every body. He is engaged to Miss Bassett." 

" Every body says you are engaged to Mr. BuUwinkle." 

" What, him ? I detest him ! But your cousin and 
Miss Bassett ? " 

"Miss Bassett is engaged — " 

" It is true then ? " 

" To a gentleman in Baltimore, Mr. Savage." 

Fanny threw back her hood, and looked up at the sky, 
as if a whole troop of cherubs had flocked out of the zenith. 

"Now, my dear, dear cousin, go at, once to Fanny 
Hazleton's, and do not let the grass grow under your feet ! 



88 ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 

And Kowley did go, and six months after, I saw the 
^^Teath of orange blossoms like a crown of glory over Fanny's 
fair forehead ; and Bell Bassett was the prettiest brides- 
maid that ever waited upon bride. 

"And the white-hand ? " 

" Is a memory Uke the rose buds ! " 



BUNKEE HILL: 

Slit dbltf-Cime Icllat 

TT was a starry night in June ; the air was soft and still, 

When the minute men from Cambridge came, and gathered on 
the hill : 
Beneath us lay the sleeping town, around us frowned the fleet, 
But the pulse of freemen, not of slaves, within our bosoms beat, 
And every heart rose high with hope, as fearlessly we said, 
" We will be numbered with the free, or numbered with the dead ! " 

" Bring out the line to mark the trench, and stretch it on the sward ! " 
The trench is marked — the tools are brought — we utter not a word, 
But stack our guns, then fall to work, with mattock and with spade, 
A thousand men with sinewy arms, and not a sound is made : 
So still were we, the stars beneath, that scarce a whisper fell ; 
We heard the red-coat's musket click, and heard him cry, " All's 
well!" 



90 BUNKER HILL : AN OLD-TIME BALLAD. 

And here and there a twinkling port, reflected on the deep, 

In many a wavy shadow showed their sullen gims asleep. 

Sleep on, thou bloody hireling crew ! in careless slumber lie ; 

The trench is growing broad and deep, the breastwork broad and 

high : 
No striplings we, but bear the arms that held the French in check, 
The drum that beat at Louisburgh, and thundered in Quebec ! 
x\nd thou, whose promise is deceit, no more thy word we'll trust. 
Thou butcher Gage ! thy power and thee w^e'll humble in the dust ; 
Thou and thy tory minister have boasted to thy brood, 
''•The lintels of the faithful shall be sprinkled with our blood !" 
But though these walls those lintels be, thy zeal is all iu vain, 
A thousand freeman shall rise up for every freeman slain, 
And when o'er trampled crowns and thrones they raise the mighty 

shout. 
This soil their Palestine shall be ! their altar this redoubt I 

See how the morn is breaking ! the red is in the sky. 

The mist is creeping from the stream that floats in silence by. 

The Lively's hull looms through the fog, and they our works have 

spied, 
For the ruddy flash and round shot part in thunder from hei- side ; 
And the Falcon and the Cerberus make every bosom thrill, 
With gun and shell, and drum and bell, and boatswain's whistle 

shrill; 
But deep and wider grows the trench, as spade and mattock ply. 
For we have to cope with fearful odds, and the time is drawing nigh ! 

Up with the pine-tree banner ! Our gallant Prescott stands 
Amid the plunging shells and shot, and plants it with his hands ; 



BUNKER HILL : AN OLD-TIME BALLAD. 91 

Up with the shout ! for Putnam comes upon his reeking bay, 
With bloody spur and foamy bit, in haste to join the fray : 
And Pomeroy, with his snow-white hairs, and face all flush and sweat, 
Unscathed by French and Indian, wears a youthful glory yet. 
But thou, whose soul is glowing in the summer of thy years, 
Unvanquishable Warren, thou (the youngest of thy peers) 
Wert born, and bred, and shaped, and made to act a patriot's part, 
And dear to us thy presence is as heart's blood to the heart ! 
Well may ye bark, ye British wolves ! with leaders such as they, 
Not one will fail to follow where they choose to lead the way — 
As once before, scarce two months since, we followed on your track, 
And with our rifles marked the road ye took in going back : 
Ye slew a sick man in his bed ; ye slew^, with hands accursed, 
A mother nursing, and her blood fell on the babe she nursed : 
By their own doors our kinsmen fell and perished in the strife ; 
But as we hold a hireling's cheap, and dear a freeman's life, 
By Tanner brook and Lincoln bridge, before the shut of sun, 
We took the recompense we claimed — a score for every one ! 

Hark ! from the town a trumpet ! The barges at the wharf 
Are crowded with the living freight — and now they're pushing oft' : 
With clash and glitter, trump and drum, in all its bright ar^-ay, 
Behold the splendid sacrifice move slowly o'er the bay ! 
And still and still the barges fill, and still across the deep, 
Like thunder-clouds along the sky, the hostile transports sweep ; 
And now they're forming at the Point — and now the lines advance, 
We see beneath the sultry sun their polished bayonets glance. 
We hear a-near the throbbing drum, the bugle challenge ring. 
Quick bursts, and loud, the flashing cloud, and rolls from wing to wing, 



92 BUNKER HILL : AN OLD-TIME BALLAD. 

But on the height our bulwark stands, tremendous in its gloom, 
As sullen as a tropic sky, and silent as the tomb. 

And so we waited — till we saw, at scarce ten rifles' length. 
The old vindictive Saxon spite, in all its stubborn strength ; 
When sudden, flash on flash, around the jagged i*ampart burst 
From every gun the livid light upon the foe accurst : 
Then quailed a monarch's might before a free-born people's ire ; 
Then drank the sward the veteran's life, where swept the yeoman's fire ; 
Then, staggered by the shot, we saw their serried columns reel, 
And fall, as falls the bearded rye beneath the reaper's steel : 
And then arose a mighty shout that might have waked the dead, 
" Hurrah ! they run ! the field is won ! " " Hurrah ! the foe is fled ! " 
And every man hath dropped his gun to clutch a neighbor's hand, 
As his heart kept praying all the while for Home and Native Land. 

Thrice on that day we stood the shock of thrice a thousand foes ; 
And thrice that day within our lines the shout of victory rose ! 
And though our swift fire slackened then, and reddening in the skies, 
We saw, from Charlestown's roofs and walls, the flamy columns rise ; 
Yet while we had a cartridge left, we still maintained the fight. 
Nor gained the foe one foot of ground upon that blood-stained height. 

What though for us no laurels bloom, nor o'er the nameless brave 
No sculptured trophy, scroll, nor hatch, records a warrior-grave ? 
What though the day to us was lost ? Upon that deathless page 
The everlasting charter stands, for every land and age ! 
For man hath broke his felon bonds and cast them in the dust, 
And claimed his heritage divine, and justified the trust ; 



BUNKER HILL : AN OLD-TIME BALLAD. 93 

While through his rifted prison-bars the hues of freedom pour 
O'er every nation, race, and dime, on every sea and shore 
Such glories as the patriarch viewed, when, 'mid the darkest skies, 
He saw, above a ruined world, the Bow of Promise rise. 



A CHKONICLE OF 
THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. 

" SrrccEss is wisdom : 
If the result be liappy we have been wise." — Mrs. Myea Mason. 

TN all great actions two elements are indispensable. 

First — the task must be exceedingly difficult in order 
to develope those heroic qualities — fortitude and perse- 
verance. 

Secondly — The result must be an equivalent for the 
labor ; a consideration which appears to have been over- 
looked by all legislators, or it might have prevented most 
of the battles, massacres, burnings and bloodshed since the 
beginning of the world. 

Whether or no I have succeeded in gaining the latter, 
posterity shall judge, and as regards the former, I can only 
ask of those who have any knowledge of the Babylonii, if any 
thing in the shape of information is not exceedingly diffi- 
cult to get at among that sage and taciturn people ? In 



96 A CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. 

fact, a genuine Long-Islancler, like one of his native oys- 
ters, is held to be of little value unless he can keep his 
mouth shut. Judge then of the labor it has cost to bring 
into the world this true and impartial history. To search 
the misspelt records of the township ; to dive into num- 
berless authorities ; to collect the waifs and floating straws 
of tradition ; to collate, examine, sift, weigh, accept, refuse 
and discriminate among these heterogeneous materials, has 
been to me a labor of love ; and fearing that no other per- 
son will ever undertake the arduous task for the benefit 
of posterity, with much brain-work and wasting of the 
midnight oil, I have at last perfected this invaluable 
work. 

Unfortunately there are no authentic antediluvian rec- 
ords of Babylon. Neither do we find a distinct and reliable 
account of such a place among the travels of those ancient 
navigators, the Phoenicians ; but from the known habits of 
that mighty hunter, Nimrod, it is but reasonable to sup- 
pose that after the dispersion of the builders of the tower 
of Babel, he would be likely to look out some place to 
gratify his peculiar tastes, and the South Side affording 
liim every faciHty, he might naturally settle there for the 
remainder of his days. Nor is this merely a matter of 
conjecture, for there is a vague tradition floating around 



A CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. 97 

the village to that effect, the most powerful argument in 
its favor being this : 

" If Nimrod did not go to Babylon, where did he go ? " 

• Until this question is satisfactorily answered, I shall 
claim the great Assyrian as the founder of the ancient 
village of Babylon. 

Having thus settled the postdiluvian era of the dis- 
covery of this ancient and renowned village, there still re- 
mains, in mysterious obscurity, a vast interval. I shall 
not, after the manner of many historians, attempt to bridge 
over this dark period with idle conjecture, but rather let it 
remain a shadowy and fathomless sea in silent sublimity, 
adding beauty by contrast to the lifeHke picture of a later 
and more eventful age. 

Babylon is bounded north by the railroad, south by 
the great South Bay, east by Coquam or Skoquam Creek, 
and west by Sunkwam or Great Creek : whether these 
fertiUzing streams ever received the names of the Euphrates 
and Tigris is not known. Yet it is but reasonable to sup- 
pose that the Chaldean monarch gave them these titles in 
honor of the ancient city of Confusion. For several thou- 
sand years the descendants of the great hunter occupied 
the territory bequeathed to them in peaceful security. The 
Syrian merged in the red man ; his very language was un- 



98 A CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. 

known, his origin forgotten ; the beautiful oriental Chaldaic 
was changed into the barbarous dialect of the Massapequas, 
and a rude tribe, " a mere handful of men," was all that re- 
mained of a nation whose greatness had overshadowed .the 
earth. 

But the lapse of centuries had not altered the natural 
beauties of the land. The primitive forest still extended 
to the verge of the green meadows that bordered the bay. 
The antlered deer stooped to drink from the clear streams 
that wound their sinuous way through the shadowy woods. 
Tlie patient beaver " built liis httle Venice " upon their 
banks, while the elk upheaved his proud neck like a mon- 
arch, and bounded away at the scream of the wild cat or 
the cry of the rapacious wolf The swan rippled with her 
snowy bosom the placid waters of the bay ; the peUcaii 
reared its rude nest amid the pines, and the plumed and 
painted Indian in his slender canoe floated like a dream 
upon the transparent bosom of the waters. The Massape- 
quas, a peaceful piscivorous nation, had but a faint idea of 
the glories of war ; a night excursion to steal some trifle 
from the neighboring Secatouges or the Shinecocks (a tribe 
noted for anointing their bodies with the fat of the opos- 
sum), or the laughter-loving Merrikokes, was the extent 
of their predatory forays. 



A CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. 99 

Even these night rambles were unsuited to the genius 
of a quiet people ; retaliation soon quenched this warlike 
spirit ; and like the Babylonii of modern days, they pre- 
ferred making raids upon the peaceful inhabitants of the 
bay — for in those days salmon did abound, yea, plen- 
tiful as shirks and blue fish ; ^ and many a black canoe, 
with the spearman standing out in bold relief by the light 
of his pine-knot torch, could be seen, where now the solitary 
tower on Fire Island casts its menacing glare upon the 
waves. 

Such was the enviable condition of the territory of 
Babylon or " Sunkwam," as it was then denominated, and so 
it remained until the discovery of the island of Manhattan, 
and the landing of the pilgrim fathers and mothers upon 
the famous rock at New Plymouth. It is not my purpose 
to repeat these familiar portions of the history of the new 
world. The rise and fall of the Dutch dynasty, and the 
colonial government of the Puritans are well known to 
every man, woman and child in the country. The patient 
Netherlander slowly populated the peaceful city of the 
Manhattoes. The Pilgrims took possession successively of 
Massachusetts, Connecticut and Khode Island. But Sunk- 
wam was reserved for greater things, and therefore her day 
came later than the rest. It was not until the middle of 



100 A CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. 

the seventeenth century, that the first irruption of the 
white men into the territory of the Massapequas took 
place. The western end of the island nearest New- Am- 
sterdam had been deliberately settled by the phlegmatic 
Dutchmen, while their more mercurial brethren had ex- 
tended themselves over the largest portion of the island, 
from Montauk Point to the present western boundaries of 
Suffolk county. At the latter place an imaginary line had 
been drawn defining the limits of the respective settle- 
ments, but in 1642 a party of Orientals started from the 
town of Lynn, and, with true Yankee audacity, squatted 
themselves at Cow Bay, directly within the boundaries of 
the Dutch territory. Now Governor Keift was a little 
man, and not over brave for a governor, but like many 
other little men he could do a great deal of fighting — at a 
distance. So he forthwith dispatched a rascally bailiff, one 
Cornelius Van Tienhoven, with directions to capture this 
band of "infamous Yankees," who had dared to come (from 
L3rnn) " between the wind and his nobility." Whereupon 
the said CorneHus took mth him six good men and true, 
and after a laborious journey of three weeks, five days and 
twenty-three hours, arrived in sight of the embryo colony. 
Here he reposed for two days and a half to recover his 
wind, and then taking off his coat and tying his suspenders 



A CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. 101 

around Ms capacious abdomen, started off alone to take 
the settlement by storm, leaving his valiant army behind 
as a " corps de reserve." As luck would have it, just as he 
reached the brow of the little hill which rises before Cow 
Bay, his foot slipped in something, and he rolled down the 
hiU toward the ill-fated colony. When the Yankees beheld 
this huge Dutch avalanche coming down, and threat- 
ening to demolish the whole of them in a twinkling, they 
were seized with a horrible panic, and ran away as if the 
devil was after them.* Then, as is the custom with puis- 
sant conquerors, did the aforementioned Cornelius take a 
view of the village, which, by the law of nations, had again 
become a possession of the States General, and twisting 
his mighty moustache, seize and carry off with him the 
spoils and prisoners of war, namely : an old woman 
with the fever and ague, a yellow-headed baby with goose- 
berry eyes, together with a bag of corn meal and a huge 
rasher of pork, and march back to Nieuw-Amsterdam 

* Here let me caution my readers against the account given by Diedrich 
Knickerbocker in the History of New- York, of this memorable event. I do 
most heartily believe every thing that he relates, except when he speaks of 
the Yankees, but there, methinks, his prejudice has warped his accurac}'. 
Beside, how could " Stoffel Brinkerhoff," as he asserts, " trudge through 
Nineveh and Babylon, and Jericho and Patchogue, and the mighty town 
of Quog, on his way to Oyster Bay ? " He might as well have tried to get to 
Albany by the way of Coney Island 1 



]02 A CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF 



BABYLON. 



like a modern Mexican lieio, fi-esh from tlie '' Halls of the 
:ezunias.'' 




J3ut this little circiunstance was pnuluctive of a o-reat 
result, ihr one of the aforesaid Yankees, Hosea Carl by 



A CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. 103 

name, ran straight across the island and never drew breath 
until he came in sight of the pleasant waters of the Great 
South Bay. Here he beheld the wigwams of the renowned 
Massapequas, and finding them to be an indolent devil- 
may-care set of savages, forthwith took them under his 
kindly protection. It was on this memorable day, namely, 
the twenty-third of May, 1642, that the first blue-fish 
was eaten by a white man within the precincts of Sunk- 
wam, or Sunquam as it is sometimes erroneously spelt. 
Nor must I omit to relate that this same Hosea Carl had 
in his waistcoat pocket some pumpkin seeds, which he 
planted without delay, for the pumpkin is the mystic sym- 
bol of the Yankees, and the planting thereof gives as good 
a title to the soil as right of possession by flag-stafi*, or any 
other ingenious invention by which barbarous tribes are 
taught to respect the rights and claims of civilized nations. 
Being thus in a manner under the shade of his own vine 
and fig-tree, Hosea seri-t a faithful copperhead, Squidko by 
name, to hunt up his wife, who had fled before the terrible 
splutter-damns of Cornelius Yon Tienhoven, like a struck 
wild-fowl at the soimd of a rusty gun. 

The daguerreotype painted upon the memory of Squidko 
was a perfect likeness, and in a few days the hapless fugi- 
tive was found. Hosea then made a " clearing," and before 



104 A CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. 

many years a small tribe of musquito-bitten, saftron-lieaded 
Hoseas, surrounded the parental clapboards. About two 
years after this memorable epoch, certain Indians who had 
been committing various depredations, were attacked by 
the famous Captain John Underhill, in the palisado called 
Fort Neck, about eight miles from Babylon, and utterly 
routed with much slaughter. Now this said John Under- 
hill was not only a terrible fellow among the savages, but 
he used to raise the devil's delight in every village where 
he happened to be quartered, for he was a great favorite 
with the fair sex (which is always the case with warriors 
and other noted characters), and although doubtless an 
innocent man, yet the viperous tongue of slander will 
assail the purest and the most ^drtuous. Hence we 
find it recorded in Thompson's admirable History of 
Long Island, out of Hutchinson, that "before a great 
assembly at Boston on a lecture day and in the court-house, 
he sat upon a stool of repentance, with a white cap on his 
head ; and with many deep sighs, a luoful countenance, and 
abundance of tears, owned his wicked way of life, and 
besought the church to have compassion on him, and de- 
liver him out of the hands of Satan." Which after all was 
only a general and not a specific acknowledgment of any 
one sin with wliich he had been charged, for doth he not 



A CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. 105 

affirm wlien he had been privately dealt with for inconti- 
nency — That " the woman being very young and beautiful, 
and withal of a jovial spirit and behaviour, he did daily 
frequent her house, and was divers times found there alone 
with her, the door being locked on the inside, and confessed 
that it was ill, because it had the appearance of evil in it ; 
but that the woman was in great trouble of mind and sore 
temptation, and that he resorted to her to comfort her ; 
and that when the door was found locked upon them they 
were in private prayer together ? " — an explanation which 
ought to be perfectly satisfactory to every reasonable mind. 

Moreover, doth not the following extract from his letter 
to his " Worthee and Beloved friend, Hansard Knowles," 
clearly show that the times, and not the man were in 
error ? 

" They propounded that I was to be examined for car- 
nally looking after one Mistris Miriam Wilbore, at the lec- 
ture in Boston when Master Shepherd expounded. This 
Mistris Wilbore hath since been dealt with for coming to 
that lecture with a pair of wanton open-worked gloves, slit 
at the thumbs and fingers, for the purpose of taking snuff. 
For, as Master Cotton observed, for what end should these 
vain openings be, but for the intent of taking filthy snuff.? 
and he quoted Gregory Nazianzen upon good works. How 



106 A CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLO^. 

the use of the good crealure tobacco, can be an offence, I 
cannot see. Master Cotton said, ^ Did you not look upon 
Mistris Wilbore ? ' I confessed that I did. Master Peters 
then sayd, ^ Why did you not look at sister Newell, or sister 
Upham ? ' I sayd ^ Verelie, they are not desyrable women, 
as to temporal graces.' Then Hugh Peters and all cryed, ^ It 
is enough, he hath confessed,' and so passed excommunica- 
tion." Now I would like to know what would become of 
our modern church-gallants if thev were liable to be ex- 
communicated upon such charges ? 

Having thus redeemed the character of this jolly bach- 
elor from the foul aspersions of a cynical age, it but re- 
mains for me to say, that from him sprang the present race 
of TJnderhills, who are to be found by every shady hill-side 
on Long Island ; men celebrated all over the face of the 
earth for their morahty and bravery. 

The first Yankee discoverer of Sunkwam did not remain 
there long without having neighbors. The Smiths, the 
Seamans, the Hicks, the Willetts, the Coopers and the 
UdeUs, planted themselves side by side with the primitive 
adventurer ; and about this time the family of the Snedi- 
cors, springing up earth-born, the Lord-knows-how, began 
to overrun the country like a wild cucumber- vine, and 
finally shot up in a single night in the hitherto purely 



A CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. 107 

Yankee village of Sunkwam. The Orientals initiated the 
Indians in the mysteries of rum, gunpowder, pumpkin- 
pies and jewsharps, and the Indians rewarded their instruc- 
tors with plentiful grants of land and prodigious clam- 
bakes. On the fourth of July, 1657, Tackapausha, the 
sachem of the Massapequas, made a treaty with the Dutch 
Governor, by which Sunkwam became nominally a province 
of the Nieuw Netherlandts ; but the conquest of the latter 
place, in 1664, by the English, restored the settlers to that 
liberty which they had lost only in name.. And now 
peace and serenity was with Sunkwam. The conical wig- 
wams of the savages were giving place to the clapboard 
castles of the industrious Yankees. Here and there a 
snowy sail careered over the bay where erst had been seen 
only the bark canoe of the aborigine. Population thrived, 
agriculture flourished : the sportive cucumber meandered 
among the green corn, the peaceful pumpkin rolled its fair 
round proportions on the sunny slopes ; and the commerce 
of Sunkwam spread like a battalia of white moths over the 
neighboring bays and inlets. 

Such was the happy condition of Babylon an hundred 
and fifty years ago ; it is a picture I am never weary of 
contemplating. Let me lay aside my pen, and look upon- 
it with the delight of a father who gazes upon his first- 



108 A CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. 

born ^vith those exquisite feelings known only to the paren- 
tal heart ! 

It was toward the close of the seventeenth century that 
the redoubtable Captain Kidd, of pious memory, dropped 
anchor off the fertile shores of Long Island. The purpose 
of the expedition, which was to put an end to the robberies 
upon the high seas ; the fruit of his experience with these 
modern " Vikings," which ended in his becoming a pirate 
himself ; and his end at Execution Dock in 1701, are weU 
known to every one ; but on board of his vessel he had 
many innocent persons, who were subordinate officers, sea- 
men, and the like, shipped with no other motive than that 
of serving their king, the press-gang, and their country. 
Among those who had become pirates by compulsion was 
the saihng-master of the vessel, one Jacob O'Lynn ; prob- 
ably a lineal descendant of that famous Bryan O'Lynn, 
who had 

" No breeches to wear, 



So he bought him a sheep-skin to make hiip a pair ; 

With the woolly side out and the leather side in, 

' They'll be cool in warm weather,' says Bryan O'Lynn." 

Be that as it may, Lynn (for he was an Englishman, 
and had dropped the Hibernic ^ 0') was a warm-hearted, 
double-fisted, square-chested sea-dog, who did not care the 



A CHEONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. 109 

toss of a biscuit who he served under, if there was plenty 
of fighting and the liquor was good. His chief amusement 
was playing on an enormous conch-shell, given him by 
some princess on the coast of Africa, who had taken a 
fancy to his broad shoulders and manly proportions ; and 
his favorite position was to get astride of the bowsprit, 
blowing his enormous conch like a jolly triton playing 
" Come o'er the Sea " before Queen Amphitrite ; from 
whence he received the name of " Conch Lynn," since cor- 
rupted into " Conklin." It is necessary to be particular in 
these matters, because they are the stepping-stones of all true 
history. But this said Conch Lynn, disliking exceedingly 
the customs of those sea anti-renters, the pirates, took an 
opportunity while Kidd was asleep, after a hard day's drink- 
ing, strapped his beloved conch-shell around his neck, filled 
his pockets with doubloons and jewels, dropped overboard, 
swam ashore, and landed high and dry on the beach at 
Fire Island. Here he blew a terrific blast upon his conch- 
shell in honor of his safe arrival, the sound of which killed 
a whole flock of snipe who were skippereering along the 
beach ; then turning a somerset in his joy, and making 
telegraphic signals with his legs, whereby he lost many 
jewels and other valuables out of his jacket-pockets, he 
swam and waded across the bay, and finally landed safe 



110 A CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. 

at Sunkwam. Here he was sumptuously entertained by 
the inhabitants, and royally feasted upon skillipots and 
snappers, beaver-tail, baked quohaugs, blue-fish, moss- 
bunkers, and other delicacies, washed down with copious 
libations of switchel and hard cider ; and being of a do- 
mestic turn of mind, he took possession of a deserted 
wigwam, hired a buxom-looking squaw for a housekeeper, 
and in the fulness of his heart kept up an infernal blarting 
upon his conch-sheU from morning till night. This hideous 
concerto was more than the Sunkwamites had bargained 
for ; accordingly, in a very eloquent remonstrance, now in 
the possession of the Historical Society of Babylon, they 
requested him " right lovingely either to cease blowinge 
y® aforesaid konke, whereby y® peace of y^ community had 

beene much endamaged, or to take his d d shell and 

blow it without y® jurisdiction of y° colony." As might be 
expected, the jolly sailing-master took ofience at this, and 
shaking the dust off his shoes, departed from the place as 
mad as a bear with a sore head. After trudging for two 
or three miles across the swamps and pine-barrens, he 
turned round and gave them a parting blast upon his sea- 
trumpet that sounded like the famous horn of Orlando at 
the dolorous rout of RoncesvaUes ; then settling himself in 
the interior, he married out of sheer spite, and begat the 



A CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. Ill 

numerous race of Conklins, who are renowned for blowing 
their own trumpets even to this day. Nay, it is asserted 
that the sound of his conch-shell can be heard even now 
sweUing upon the wind across the bay whenever there is a 
storm brewing to the southward. Still the Httle settlement 
thrived in spite of these untoward mishaps, and it was 
christened Huntington-South, in honor of the great hunter 
who had founded it. 

It is delightful to review the manners and customs of 
this little colony. Every one assisted his neighbor ; the 
laws were administered with strict impartiality, and I have 
quoted from the aforesaid " History of Long Island " the 
following record as a specimen of what evenhanded justice 
was in those patriarchal days. 

"Town-Court, Oct. 23, 1662. — Stephen Jervice, an 
attorney in behalf of James Chichester, plf , vs. Tho. 
Scudder, deft., action of y^ case and of batery. Deft, says 
that he did his endeavor to save y® pigg from y® wolif, but 
knows no hurt his dog did it ; and as for y® sow, he denys 
y® charge. Touching y® batery, striking y^ boye, says he 
did strike ye^ boye, but it was for abusing his daughter. 
Y*" verdict of y® jury is, that deft.'s dog is not fitt to be 
cept, but y® acsion fails for want of testimony ; but touch- 
ing y® batery, y® jury's verdict pass for plff., that deft, pay 



112 A CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. 

him ten shillings for striking y® boye, and y® plff. to pay 
five shillings for his boye's incivility.' Having thus found 
a verdict against the dog, the plaintiff and the defendant, 
the jury were allowed to proceed to their respective 
homes. 

And now, even as a laborer after a hard day's work 
stretches himself and slumbers in tranquilHty, did the little 
town of Huntington-South enjoy a long period of repose. 
The old settlers were gathered in the silent folds where all 
must slumber — the Indians melted from the land like snow 
before the sun in April. Piece by piece the land had been 
purchased by the whites ; nor must I omit to mention the 
story of Sally Higbee, " who didd receive a notable tracte 
of land from one Smackatagh, by reasonne of a kisse which 
he did begge of herr, and which she bestowde in considera- 
cion of havinge the said lande given tow herr by the sal- 
vage ; " and also the manner in which one Jones did out- 
jump an Indian for a wager (the latter staking forty square 
miles of good land against a barrel of hard cider), and being 
a springy varlet, and full of quicksilver, did thereby win 
the same from him by a foot and a half With the excep- 
tion of such events, Huntington-South slumbered on for 
above a century. The war of the revolution broke out and 
rolled like a sea of fire around her scrub-oak barriers ; but 



A CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. 113 

she knew it not, and even to this day, it is said, some of 
the inhabitants pray devoutly for the restoration of King 
Charles the Second, of blessed memory. 

At last the nineteenth century dawned upon the world. 
Voluminous as are the records of this period, one important 
circumstance has escaped the notice of every historian. 
Seizing upon this event with the joy of one who has found 
a treasure, and scarcely credits the evidence of his senses, 
I shall forthwith reveal how Sunkwam came to be chris- 
tened by the name it now bears. In 1801, one Nat. Conk- 
lin (or Conkelynge) kept a store in the village, and trans- 
acted a profitable business with the inhabitants. At the 
same time an Irishman, Billy Callighan by name, had a 
similar establishment for the vending of rum, red herrings, 
tape, tobacco, mackerel, molasses, cod-fish and calicoes. 
" Huntington-South" had always been a stumbling-block in 
the way of the native orthographists (I myself have seen 
more than seventeen different ways of spelling it, every 
one of them wrong), so this merry little Irishman, in honor 
of his native city, determined to name it Dublin ! But 
Aunt Phoebe Conklin, a lineal descendant of the doughty 
Jacob, settled her spectacles firmly upon the tip of her 
indefatigable nose, took a sharp pinch of snuff out of a 
testy-looking little box, clapped the box in her side pocket. 



114 A CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. 

and with her thumb and fore-finger tightly pinched 
together, as if she held the weasand of the presumptuous 
Billy Callighan squeezed between them, declared she would 
not have it so : " And since the place wants a name/' said 
she, ^' I'll name it : I'll caU it Babylon ! — because there's 
always so much ^ babbling ' going on there ! " And there- 
upon she took out a red bandanna, and sounded a terrific 
blast with her nose, that was like unto the sound of the 
mighty conch-shell of her valorous ancestor. So the village 
became Babylon by sound of trumpet ! 

Nor must I now omit to describe the nominatrix of this 
puissant village. She was a tall, spare, mathematical-look- 
ing lady, with a face like a last wiU and testament, with 
amen ! written in every corner. Moreover, she was bedight 
in a crimp-cap and white short-gown, with a black silk- 
kerchief pinned crossways over her neck, and a quilted 
calico petticoat, that by dint of repeated washing looked 
like the ghost of a defunct dolphin. 

Meanwhile, one Thompson, who was likewise an aspi- 
rant for fame, must needs have his say in the matter ; and 
being of a milky disposition, of wonderful good-nature, and 
wishing every body well in the world, would fain give Ba- 
bylon a more euphonious title ; so he called together all the 
inhabitants, had a grand " pow-wow " at his house, and 



^ CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. 115 

spent several doUars in the purchase of 'sundry gallons of 
corn-whiskey, apple-jack and New-England rum, with 
which the company became wonderfully mellow. Then, 
after much preliminary backing-and-filling, he proposed — 
in a terribly long-winded speech, which the limits of the 
work will not permit me to give entire — ^^ that the village, 
being a quiet, peaceful little place, where aU were ^ Unitas 
Fratrum^' should be henceforth kno^\'ii and denominated 
as Harmony ; '' which was unanimously ratified upon the 
spot by all present. This important ceremony over, the 
Harmonians proceeded to the more serious business of the 
night, and took unto themselves sundry juleps, sHngs, tod- 
dies, etc. Then, according to the records of the time, did 
they become bucked, boozy, bunged up, corned, sprung, 
swipesy, swizzled, soaked, smashed, slewed, sewed-up, sick, 
mellow, maudlin, hot, funny, toddied, top-heavy, half- 
snapped, keeled-up, drunken, inebriated, intoxicated, one 
eye open, in liquor, weeping, shouting, swearing, roaring, 
flabbergasted, all talking at once, kicked, cuffed, torn, 
fisted ; in a word, they made as infernal an uproar as ever 
had been made at the building of the veritable tower of 
Babel upon the plains of Shinar ! But how vain are hu- 
man efforts to contend with fate ! The sun rose in the 
morning, and breaking several panes of glass in the win- 



116 



A CHRONICLE OF THE VILLAGE OF BABYLON. 



dews of the east, looked through and smiled in peaceful 
serenity upon the slumbering village. And lo and behold ! 
it was Babylon still, and so it has remained even to the 
present day. Having thus brought this philosophical and 
philological history to the beginning of the present century, 
I lay aside my pen. I pass over, as apocryphal, the 
popular rumor of Babylon having been once named " Dog- 
y\\\e ; " but justice to the Babylonii demands that I should 
affirm, upon the word of an historian, that since the unfor- 
tunate issue of the " christening," they have continued and 
still remain A Strictly Temperance People. 







THE SEASONS. 

ABOUND, around, around, around, 
The snow is on the frozen ground ; 
Kiver and rill 
Are frore and still. 
The warm sun lies on the cold side hill, 
And the trees in the forest sound. 
As their ice-clasped arms wave to and fro 
When they shiver their gyves with a stalwart blow. 

Slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly 
Comes the Spring, 
Like a maiden holy ; 
Her blue eyes hid in a wimple of gray. 
But a hopeful smile on her face alway ; 
Through the rich, brown earth bursts the pale, green 

shoot 
From the milk-white threads of the sensitive root. 



118 THE SEASONS. 

Like a joy that is fragile and fleeting ; 
And the little house wren, in his plain, drab coat, 
Holds forth, in a plaintive, querulous note. 

Like a Quaker at yearly meeting. 

Of Autumn, gorgeous, sombre, and sere, 
I shaU probably write at the close of the year. 
But at present, the jubilant Summer is here — 
AU in love — with her half bursting bodice of green, 
Just disclosing that Easselas valley between ; 

And her farthingale purfled aU over — 
With violets, strawberries, liHes, and tulips. 
Intermingled with mint-sprigs, suggestive of juleps. 

And suggestive of li\dng in clover ; 
Of a lid-shutting breeze in the shadow of trees. 
Of love in a cottage — ^and lamb and green peas. 
Of claret and ice, chicken-cmTy and rice, 
And lobster and lettuce, and every thing nice. 
Of fresh milk — and a baby. 
And butter, and cheese, 
And a thousand affinitive blessings like these. 

The Summer, joy-bringer ! is warm on my cheek, 
It blooms on the blossom, it breathes in the rose, 
And if nothing occurs, in the course of a week, 
I shall be where the pond-lily blow^ : 



THE SEASONS. 119 

Where the wild rose, and willow, are glassed in the pool, — 
Where the mornings, and evenings, are fragrant and cool, — 
Where the breeze from old Ocean sweeps over the bay, 
And the board is six shillings a day ! 



OLD BOOKS. 

T LOVE old books. It is to get below the transitory 
surface of the present, the alluvial stratum of literature, 
to stand upon the primitive rock, the gray, and ancient 
granite of the early world. It is to commune with the 
Spirit of the Past, to roll back the universe through cycle 
and epicycle. The haze of antiquity hangs over a collec- 
tion of old books, in which the shapes of the departed are 
reflected, like the gigantic shadows on the Brocken. Re- 
prints have none of it — you lose the vital elixir in the 
transmutation. Here lies great HoUingshead ! — black-letter 
edition of 1569* (so the colophon tells us), dog's-eared 
with the weight of three centuries. Did William Cecil, 
Lord Burleigh, ever bend his sagacious head over these 
clear pages ? Did Raleigh ? — Bacon ? — Essex ? — Spen- 



122 OLD BOOKS. 

ser ? Or did Elizabeth, with tears of pity, read the touch- 
ing story of Lady Jane Grey, here painted with such 
minute fidelity, and turn again to marble when the death- 
warrant was brought for her signature that was to consign 
to the block, her kinswoman of Scotland — the lovely, royal, 
Mary Stuart ? Yonder " standard library edition" is a 
faithful copy, but this hook was cotemporary with Shak- 
speare ; this was extant before the Armada. This volume 
was read, these identical leaves turned over, ere the first 
spiral of tobacco smoke wound upward in the clear English 
air, or Ireland was conscious of its chief national blessing 
— the potato ! 

I trust it will not be considered pedantic if I aver I 
love old books because of their quaintness in typography 
and orthography. Who would like to see sweet, silvery 
Sj)enser, or scholastic Burton (great finger-post of an- 
tiquity, pointing to all manner of shady lanes and for- 
gotten by-paths of learning), shorn of their exuberance ? 
Who feel not, when reading these tawny pages of Tattlers 
and Spectators (printed in Queen Anne's time) something 
that recalls vividly WilFs Coffee House, and tacitmn Ad- 
dison, and great, little Alexander Pope, and the inexorable 
satirist . of St. Patrick's, and skeptical Bolingbroke, and 
Richard Steele, hiding from a dirty bailiff in an obscure 



OLD BOOKS. 123 

room, to pen a paragraph — haply to pay for his dinner, 
haply to be admired by all posterity. 

Whatsoever belongs to Latin and Greek, interested me 
fuost at an earlier period of life. As a boy, I looked up 
to "large-handed Achilles," and Livy's beautiful narra- 
tions, with unfeigned delight. Later in youth, I found 
new worlds in German literature, in Spanish, ItaHan ; but 
never affected much the French. As a man now, in this 
autumnal season of life, I love best our mother tongue. 

" Nor scorn not mother tongue, O babes of English breed ! 
I have of other language seen, and you at full may read, 
Fine verses trimly wrought, and couched in comely sort, 
But never I, nor you, I trow, in sentence plain and short, 
Did yet behold with eye, in any foreign tongue, 
A higher verse, a statelier style, that may be said or sung, 
Than in this day indeed, our English verse and rhyme. 
The grace whereof doth touch the gods, and reach the clouds 
sometime." 

Poor Tom Churchyard composed these verses before 
Shakspeare was born ! Spenser's Fairy Queen was pub- 
lished nineteen years after his death. Almost all we know 
of English poetry (except Chaucer's) is limited to that 
written between his time and ours. What was there be- 
fore that period to merit such encomiums ? Surely it is 
well to inquire. Poor Tom Churchyard ! — - 



124 OLD BOOKS. 

" Poverty and Poetry his tomb doth inclose, 
Wherefore, good neighbours, be merry in prose." 

I love old books. Here Kes a folio copy in three vol- 
umes, of Congreve, a matchless specimen of typography ; 
every letter distinct and delicate, " and poured round all " 
a broad, creamy margin of immaculate purity. What a 
commentary upon the text ! Licentious Congreve in the 
vestments of chastity ! — There is a sturdy quarto. Kun 
it over. Blackstone ! with marginal pen and ink notes by 
Aaron Burr. What is this underscored ? 

'■'■ In a land of liberty it is extremely dangerous to make a distinct 
order of the profession of arms." 

" Emulation, or virtuous ambition is a spring of action which, 
however dangerous or invidious in a mere republic^ or under a des- 
potic sway, will certainly be attended with good effects under a free 
monarchy." 

On the title-page is inscribed, 



/y9y 



The Blennerhassett conspiracy transpired niue years after, 
in 1806. Did those Little sentences suggest that, or was 



OLD BOOKS. 125 

the thought latent before ? It seems to me the history 
of Aaron Burr is written in that scratch of his pen. 

Here, resting against Strangford's Camoens, is a Keview 
of the text of Milton, '^hy Dr. Zachary Pearce, Bp. of 
Bochester." So we are informed by an autograph in pale 
ink, in Elia's clerkly hand. How carefully this book was 
read by him ! Not an error of the printer (and there are 
many) but what is corrected ; not a wrong point, comma, 
or semicolon (and there are many) but what is amended. 
Incomparable EHa ! Gentle Charles Lamb ! That book 
is dearer to me than the most sumptuous edition of modern 
days- — even including mine own ! 

Methinks D'IsraeH, in his Chapter on Prefaces, might 
have noticed those two which stand, hke a forlorn hope, in 
front of yonder towering volumes. Sylvester is one — ^his 
commentator wrote the other. " And who is Sylvester ? " 
Gentle reader (I take it you are a lady), doubtless you 
have read Macaulay's Battle of Ivry ? Du Bartas, a 
French knight who fought under Henry of Navarre in that 
battle, laid aside his sword, after the fray, to tell the tale 
of Ivry with his pen. He also wrote " The Divine Week," 
both of which were translated by Joshua Sylvester, a 
famous Enghsh poet, whose works were thought worthy 
of encomiastic verses by Ben Jonson, Daniel, Davis of 



126 OLD BOOKS. 

Hereford, and many other eminent writers of the time of 
King James I. The Divine Week is the first rude sketch 
of Paradise Lost. Yonder book was published when Mil- 
ton was thirteen years old, and printed in the very street 
in which he lived. 

" Things unattempted yet in verse or prose," — 

forsooth ! and the prefaces, full of touching appeals to a 
posterity which, as yet, has scarcely recognized either poet 
or commentator. 

This little old Bible was in my grandfather's knapsack 
at the battle of Bunker Hill. It looks as though it had 
stood the brunt of the fight. Printed in 1741, by Thomas 
Watkins, one of his Majesty's printers, to wliich is added 
" a collection of Psalms, Hymns and Spiritual Songs, for 
the use, edification and comfort of the saints, in publick 
and private, esjDecially in New England." The Saints of 
King George the Second were canonized by King<jreorge 
the Third. Metliinks I can see the dissolute soldiery land- 
ing at Moulton's Point, with havoc in their eyes and curses 
in their hearts, marching toward that redoubt, to be swept 
down by the steady fire of the New England saints, who, 
had they been as well provided with powder, as mtli bibles, 
might have written the first and last chapter of the revo- 
lution on the bloody page of Bunker Hill, June 17th, 



OLD BOOKS. 127 

1775. Beside it, clasped in a kind of reverential awe, is 
"Nathaniel Morton's New England's Memorial, 1669 \" 

" The Mayflower's Memories of the brave and good " — 

of Bradford and Winslow, and Copt. Miles Standisli, as lie 
is always called, and the rest, touch us more nearly when 
we know that book was handled by their compeers. Is it 
not like rolling back the curtain of a great drama, to think 
those pages were lifted from the first printing-press that 
crossed the Atlantic ? 

" Sonnets, To Sundry Notes of Musicke, by Mr. Wil- 
liam Shakespeare," in shattered sheepskin ! What can 
be said of Mr. William Shakspeare ? If his commen- 
tators (including Mr. Verplanck, the most learned, as 
weU as the most philosophical) had left any thing to be 
said, that stripling volume might suggest there were some 
things of Shakspeare which had not yet found their way 
in modern editions. Perhaps my short-sightedness never 
discovered them therein ? Nevertheless, I have searched 
diligently. 

Red-letter title-pages ! Rubrics of the past century ! 
Twelve volumes by Dr. Swift, Dr. Arbuthnot, Mr. Pope, 
and Mr. Gay ! What was young America doing when 
these were being discussed in the boxes of" Will's Coffee- 
House ? For these books saw the light three-quarters of 



128 OLD BOOKS. 

an age after " The Memorial of Nathaniel Morton, Secre- 
tary to the Court for the Jurisdiction of New Plymouth/' 
What was young America doing, while Pope was \NTiting 
the Dunciad ? and the Mayflower (the ark of a new cove- 
nant) had rotted to the keelson, perhaps an hundred years 
before. Settling .Georgia ! Suffering from the Choctaws ! 
Receiving that distinguished metaphysician. Dr. George 
Berkely, afterward Bishop of Cloyne ! And Swift — great 
poHtical economist, amid the parturient throes of a new 
world writes — " The Power of Time/' 

If neither brass nor marble can withstand 
The mortal force of Time's destructive hand ; 
If mountains sink to vales, if cities die, 
And less'ning rivers mourn their fountains dry : 
"When my old Cassock" (said a Welsh divine) 
" Is out at elbows; why should I repine ? " 

• 

I cannot help tm-ning to this old volume of tracts by 
the Lord Bishop of Cloyne, containing "Odes,'' "Thoughts 
on Tar Water," " Essays to prevent the ruin of Great 
Britain," etc., to quote part of these prophetic lines on 
" the prospect of planting arts and learning in America." 

" There shall be sung another golden age, 
The rise of empire and of arts, 
The good and great inspiring epic rage, 
The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 



OLD BOOKS. 129 

" Not such as Europe breeds in her decay ; 
Such as she bred when fresh and young, 
When heavenly flame did animate her clay, 
By future poets shall be sung. 

" Westward the course of empire takes its way ; 
The four first acts already past, 
A fifth shall close the drama with the day ; 
Time's noblest offspring is the last." 

I love old books. Those nine volumes of Tristram 
Shandy, which stand in tarnished gold, like the slender 
pipes of some Lilliputian organ, are a legend and a mystery. 
Some thirty years since an old English gentleman came 
to this country with a choice collection of curious books, 
among which (it was darkly whispered) there were many 
from Sterne's Hbrary. These were part ^f that collection, 
(gift of the gifted 0. L. E.) whose various dates indicate, 
year after year, the progress of the work. Illustrated too 
by Hogarth's own hand ! Thus should kindred genius go 
down in loving companionship to posterity. ^' Fragmenta 
Aurea" of Sir John Suckling helps fill the niche, with 
Cotton, Sedley, Dorset, Etherege, Halifax, and Dr. Donne. 
Rare companions, mad wags, airy, pathetic, gay, tender, 
witty, and ludicrous ; jostHng, pious John Selden, with his 
mouth full of aphorisms. 



130 OLD BOOKS. 

" Her feet beneath her petticoat, 
Like little mice stole in and out, 

As if they feared the light," 

sings Sir John ; and liis neighbors, lay and clerical, 
respond — 

" I can love both fair and brown ; 
Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betrays ; 
Her who loves loneness best, and her who sports and plays ; 
Her whom the country formed, and whom the town ; 
Her who believes, and her who tries ; 
Her who still weeps with spongy eyes. 
And her who is dry cork, and never cries." 

ISamuel Daniel clasps his brown wings below in mute 
sympathy with the melancholy Cowley. " Samuel — Dan- 
iel/' why should he not bear the names of two prophets ? 

For when the oracles are dumb 
Poets prophetical become. 

I love old books. The yellow leaves spread out before 
me as a ripened field, and I go along — gleaning — like 
Ruth in the sunny fields of Bethlehem. Yet I would not 
have too many. Large libraries, from the huge folios at 
the base (grim Titans), rearing aloft, to the small volumes 
oil the upper shelves, a ponderous p}Tamid of lore, oppress 
the brain. When I look round upon my shining cohorts — 
the old imperial guard of English literature (with sundry 



OLD BOOKS. 131 

conscripts, promoted to the front ranks) — I feel, with 
honest pride, how jealous I am that none appear unwor- 
thy of such company. So is it with friends. We hke a 
small and choice collection. After these come books. A 
friend is worth twenty Hbraries, yet I hate to lose one 
book with whom I have been famiHar many years. I 
have not yet forgiven the Curate, Master Barber, and the 
Housekeeper, for destroying 

" Amadis de Gaul, 



Th' Esplandians, Arthurs, Palmerins, and all 
The learned library of Don Quixote : " 

that choice Uttle anthology of rare flowers. 

New books (unbending vestals) require too much labor 
in the wooing ; and to go armed with an ivory spatula, 
like a short, Eoman sword, piercing one's way through 
the spongy leaves of an uncut volume, is an abomination. 
An old book opens generously ; spreading out its arms, as 
it were, " wi' a Highland welcome ; " giving 

" the whole sum 



Of errant knighthood, with the dames and dwarfs ; 
The charmed boats, and the enchanted wharfs. 
The Tristrams, Lanc'lots, Turpins, and the Peers, 
All the mad Eolands, and sweet Ohvers ; 
To Merlin's marvels, and his Cabal's loss, 
With the chimera of the Rosie Cross ; • 



132 OLD BOOKS. 

Their seals, their characters, hermetic rings, 
Their jem of riches, and bright stone that brings 
Invisibility, and strength, and tongues." 

Yet a young book, at timeSj is worth the wooing. I 
have seen such, growing up under mine own eyes ; which 
reminds me of a friend of mine, who once dandled that 
upon his knee which afterward became his wife. 

I have an ancient manuscript . But I forbear. 

When I open an old volume, and hear the words of 
wisdom from the lips of age ; listening, as it were, to " a 
voice crying from the ground," methinks it is as the sound 
of a midnight wind sighing through the branches of an 
oak — a hoary centenarian ! Ah, reader ! keep to thy 
books ; especially old books ! They are Hke the pool of 
Bethesda, heahng and comforting. In the words of quaint 
Burton, I take leave of thee ; 

" For if thou dost not ply thy books, 
By candle-light to study bent, 
Employed about some honest thing. 
Envy, or love, shall thee torment." 







A BABYLONISH DITTY. 



OJvE liiau several years have faded, since my heart was first in- 
vaded, 

J Jy u hiown-skinned, gray-eyed siren, on the merry old "South 
Side;'' 
WJiere the jnill-tlume cataracts gHsten, and tlieag'ile bhie-fish listen 
To the tieet of phantom s(;hooners floating o^l the weedy tide. 



134 A BABYLONISH DITTY. 

'Tis the land of rum and romance, for tlie old Soutli Bay is no man's, 
But belongs (as all such places should belong) to Uncle Sam ; 

There you'll see the amorous plover, and the woodcock in the cover, 
And the silky trout all over, underneath the water-dam. 

There amid the sandy reaches, in among the pines and beeches, 
Oaks, and various other kinds of old primeval forest trees, 

Did we wander in tlie noonlight, or beneath the silver moonlight, 
While in ledges sighed the sedges to the salt salubrious breeze. 

Oh ! I loved her as a sister — often, often times I kissed her. 

Holding prest against my vest her slender, soft, seductive hand ; 

Often by my midnight taper, filled at least a quire of paper 

With some graphic ode, or sapphic, " To the nymph of Babyland.'* 

Oft we saw the dim blue highlands. Coney, Oak, and other islands, 
(Moles that dot the dimpled bosom of the sunny summer sea,) 

Or 'mid polished leaves of lotus, whereso 'er our skiff would float us, 
Anywhere, where none could notice, there we sought alone to be. 

Thus till summer was senescent, and the woods were iridescent. 
Dolphin tints, and hectic-hints of what was shortly coming ou, 

Did I worship Amy Milton, fragile was the faith I built on. 
Then we parted ; broken-hearted, I, when she left Babylon. 

As upon the moveless water lies the motionless frigata. 

Flings her spars and spidery outlines lightly on the lucid plain. 

But whene'er the fresh breeze bloweth, to more distant oceans goeth. 
Never more the old haunt knoweth, never more returns again — 



A BABYLONISH DITTY. 135 

So is woman evanescent ; shifting with the shifting present ; 

Changing Hke the changing tide, and faithless as the fickle sea ; 
Lighter than the wind-blown thistle ; falser than the fowler's whistle 

Was that coaxing piece of hoaxing — Amy Milton's love to me : 

Yes, thou transitory bubble! floating on this sea of trouble, 

Though the sky be bright above thee, soon will sunny days be gone ; 

Then when thou'rt by all forsaken, will thy bankrupt heart awaken 
To those golden days of olden times in happy Babylon ! 



THE FIRST OYSTER-EATER. 

ri^HE impenetrable veil of antiquity hangs over the ante- 
. -*- diluvian oyster, but the geological finger-post points 
to the testifying fossil. We might, in pursuing this sub- 
ject, sail upon the broad pinions of conjecture into the re- 
mote, or flutter with lighter wings in the regions of fable, 
but it is unnecessary : the mysterious pages of Nature are 
ever opening freshly around us, and in her stony volumes, 
amid the calcareous strata, we behold the precious mollusc 
— ^the primeval bivalve, 

" rock-ribbed 1 and ancient as the sun."— -Bryant. 

Yet, of its early history we know nothing. Etymolo- 
gy throws but little light upon the matter. In vain have 
we carried our researches into the vernacular of the maritime 



138 THE FIRST OYSTER-EATER. 

Phcenicians, or sought it amid the fragments of Chaldean 
and Assyrian lore. To no purpose have we analyzed the 
roots of the comprehensive Hebrew, or lost ourselves in the 
baffling labyrinths of the oriental Sanscrit. The history 
of the ancient oyster is written in no language, except in 
the universal idiom of the secondary strata ! Nor is this sur- 
prising in a philosophical point of view. Setting aside the 
pre- Adamites, and taking Adam as the first name-giver, 
when we reflect, that Adam lived iN-land, and therefore 
never saw the succulent periphery in its native mud, we 
may deduce this reasonable conclusion : viz., that as he 
never saw it, he probably never named it — never ! — not 
even to his most intimate friends. Such being the case, 
we must seek for information in a later and more enlighten- 
ed age. And here let me take occasion to remark, that 
oysters and intelligence are nearer allied than many persons 
imagine. The relations between Physiology and Psychol- 
ogy are beginning to be better understood. A man might 
be scintillant with facetiousness over a plump " Shrewsbury,'' 
who would make a very sorry figure over a bowl of water- 
gmel. The gentle, indolent Brahmin, the illiterate Lap- 
lander, yie ferocious Libyan, the mercurial Frenchman, and 
the stolid (I beg your pardon), the stalwart Englishman, 
are not more various in their mental capacities than in 



THE FIRST OYSTER-EATER. 139 

their table assthetics. And even in this Century, we see 
that wit and oysters come in together with September, and 
wit and oysters go out together in May — a circumstance 
not without its weight, and peculiarly pertinent to the sub- 
ject-matter. With this brief but not irrelevant digression, 
I will proceed. We have " Ostreum " from the Latins, 
" Oeste7' " from the Saxons, " Auster " from the Teutons, 
" Ostra " from the Spaniards, and " Huitre" from the French 
■ — ^words evidently of common origin — ^threads spun from 
the same distaff ! And here our archaBology narrows to a 
point, and this point is the pearl we are in search of: viz., 
the genesis of this most excellent fish. 

"Words evidently derived from a common origin." 
What origin ? Let us examine the venerable page of his- 
tory. Where is the first mention made of oysters ? Hu- 
dibras says : 

"the Emperor Caligula, 



Who triumphed o'er the British seas, 

Took crabs and " oystees" prisoners (mark that !) 

And lobsters, 'stead of cuirassiers ; 

Engaged his legions in fierce bustles 

With periwinkles, prawns, and muscles, 

And led his troops with furious gallops. 

To charge whole regiments of scallops ; 

Not, like their ancient way of war. 

To wait on his triumphal car, 



140 THE FIRST OYSTER-EATER. 

But when lie went to dine or sup, 
More bravely ate his captives up ; 
Leaving all war by his example, 
Reduced — to vict'ling of a camp well." 

This is the first mention in the classics of oysters ; and 
we now approach the cynosure of our inquiry. From this 
we infer that oysters came originally from Britain. The 
word is unquestionably ^:)rmiYive. The broad open vo wel- 
ly sound is, beyond a doubt, the primal, spontaneous 
thought that found utterance when the soft, seductive 
mollusc first exposed its white bosom in its pearly shell to 
the enraptured gaze of aboriginal man ! Is there a ques- 
tion about it ? Does not every one know, when he sees an 
oyster, that that is its name ? And hence we reason that 
it originated in Britain, was latinized by the Komans, re- 
plevined by the Saxons, corrupted by the Teutons, and 
finally barbecued by the French. Oh, philological ladder by 
which we mount upward, until we emerge beneath the 
clear vertical light of Truth ! ! Methinks I see the First 
Oyster-Eater ! A brawny, naked savage, with his wild 
hair matted over his wild eyes, a zodiac of fiery stars tattoo- 
ed across his muscular breast — unclad, unsandalled, hirsute 
and hungry — he breaks through the underwoods that mar- 
gin the beach, and stands alone upon the sea-shore, with 



THE FIRST OYSTER-EATER. 141 

nothing in one hand but his unsuccessful boar-spear, and 
nothing in the other but his fist. There he beholds a 
splendid panorama ! The west all a-giow ; the conscious 
waves blushing as the warm sun sinks to their embraces ; 
the blue sea on his left ; the interminable forest on his 
right ; and the creamy sea-sand curving in delicate tracery 
between. A Picture and a Child of Nature ! Delighted- 
ly he plunges in the foam, and swims to the bald crown of 
a rock that uplifts itself above the waves. Seating himself 
he gazes upon the calm expanse beyond, and swings his 
legs against the moss that spins its filmy tendrils in the 
brine. Suddenly he utters a cry ; springs up ; the blood 
streams from his foot. With barbarous fury he tears up 
masses of sea moss, and with it clustering families of tes- 
tacea. Dashing them down upon the rock, he perceives a 
liquor exuding from the fragments ; he sees the white pul- 
py delicate morsel half-hidden in the cracked shell, and in- 
stinctively reaching upward, his hand finds mouth, and 
amidst a savage, triumphant deglutition, he murmurs — 
Oyster ! ! Champing, in his uncouth fashion, bits of shell 
and sea-weed, with uncontrollable pleasure he masters this 
mystery of a new sensation, and not until the gray veil of 
night is drawn over the distant waters, does he leave the 
rock, covered with the trophies of his victory. 



142 THE FIRST OYSTER-EATER. 

We date from this epoch the maritime history of Eng- 
land. Ere long, the reedy cabins of her aborigines cluster- 
ed upon the banks of beautiful inlets, and overspread her 
long lines of level beaches ; or pencilled with dehcate 
wreaths of smoke the savage aspect of her rocky coasts. 
The sword was beaten into the oyster-knife, and the spear 
into oyster rakes. Commerce spread her white wings 
along the shores of happy Albion, and man emerged at 
once into civiHzation from a nomadic state. From this 
people arose the mighty nation of Ostrogoths ; from the 
Ostraphagi of ancient Britain came the custom of Ostracism 
— that is, sending pohtical dehnquents to that place where 

m 

they can get no more oysters. 

There is a strange fatahty attending all discoverers. Our 
Briton saw a mighty change come over his country — a change 
beyond the reach of memory or speculation. Neighboring 
tribes, formerly hostile, were now Hnked together in bonds 
of amity. A sylvan, warhke people had become a peace- 
ful, piscivorous conmaunity ; and he himself, once the low- 
est of his race, was now elevated above the dreams of liis am- 
bition. He stood alone upon the sea-shore, looking to^Njard 
the rock, which, years ago, had been his stepping-stone to 
])ower, and a desire to revisit it came over him. He stands 
now upon it. The season, the hour, the westerly sky, re- 



THE FIRST OYSTER-EATER. 148 

mind him of former times. He sits and meditates. Sud- 
denly a flush of pleasure overspreads his countenance ; for 
there just below the flood, he sees a gigantic bivalve — 
alone — with mouth agape, as if yawning with very weari- 
ness at the solitude in which it found itself What I am 
about to describe may be untrue. But I believe it. I 
have heard of the waggish propensities of oysters. I have 
known them, from mere humor, to clap suddenly upon a rat's 
tail at night ; and, what with the squeaking and the clat- 
ter, we verily thought the devil had broke loose in the 
cellar. Moreover, I am told upon another occasion, when 
a demijohn of brandy had burst, a large " Blue-pointer " was 
found, lying in a little pool of liquor, just drunk enough to 
be careless of consequences — opening and shutting his 
shells with a " devil-may-care " air, as if he didn't value 
anybody a brass farthing, but was going to be as noisy as 
he possibly could. 

But to return. When our Briton saw the oyster in 
this defenceless attitude, he knelt down, and gradually 
reaching his arm toward it, he suddenly thrust his fingers 
in the aperture, and the oyster closed upon them with a spas- 
modic snap ! In vain the Briton tugged and roared ; he 
might as well have tried to uproot the solid rock as to 
move that oyster ! In vain he called upon all his heathen 



144 THE FIRST OYSTER-EATER. 

gods — Grog and Magog — elder than Woden and Thor ; 
and with huge, uncouth, druidical d — ns consigned all 
shell-fish to Nidhogg, Hela, and the submarines. Bivalve 
held on "v\dth "a, will/' It was nuts for him certainly. 
Here was a great, lubberly, chuckle-headed fellow, the de- 
stroyer of his tribe, with his fingers in chancery, and the 
tide rising I A fellow who had thought, like ancient Pis- 
tol, to make the world his oyster, and here was the oyster 
making a world of him. Strange mutation ! The poor 
Briton raised his eyes : there were the huts of his people ; 
he could even distinguish his own, with its slender spiral of 
smoke ; they were probably preparing a roast for him ; 
how he detested a roast I Then a thought of his wife, his 
little ones awaiting him, tugged at his heart. The waters 
rose around him. He struggled, screamed in his anguish ; 
but the remorseless winds dispersed the sounds, and ere the 
evening moon arose and flung her white radiance upon the 
placid waves, the last billow had rolled over the First Oys- 
ter-Eater ! 

I purpose at some* future time to show the relation ex- 
isting between wit and oysters. It is true that Chaucer (a 
poet of considerable promise in the fourteenth centmy) has 
alluded to the oyster in rather a disrespectful manner ; and 
the learned Du Bartas (following the elder Pliny) hath ac- 



THE FIRST OYSTER-EATER. 145 

cused this modest bivalve of " being incontinent/' a charge 
wholly without foundation, for there is not a more chaste 
and innocent fish in the world. But the rest of our poets 
have redeemed it from these foul aspersions in numberless 
passages, among which we find Shakspeare's happy allu- 
sion to 

" Rich honesty dwelling in a poor house." 

And no one now, I presume, will pretend to deny, that 
it hath been always held 

" Great in months of wisest censure ! " 

In addition to a chapter on wit and oysters, I also may 
make a short digression touching cocldes. 




AN EVENING REVEEY 



I READ in some old book of mystic lore : 
One of those gem-hooks^ all illnmined o'er 
With vermeil flowers and aznre hnds, embraced 
In latticed ffold around the maro'in laced ; 



148 AN EVENING KEVEEY. 

Stuffed with strong words, and quaint conceits — I fear 
Not over tuneful they to gentle lady's ear : 

To some, not all ; for seated at tliy feet, 
Methinks I might that same harsh text repeat, 
i^nd even win thy smile ; which like the sun, 
" Sheds life and light o'er all it looks upon ; 
But to begin again "the hook," ah me ! 
I cannot think of it ; my thoughts are aU of thee ! 

Have patience ; well then, thus : it was my hap 
To read a story of a wondrous cap, 
" Old Fortunatus", and the tale doth say 
That when he would at once be far away 
From where he was, 'twas but to don the hood, 
And wish — and straight it chanced he was where'er he would. 

Thus far I read, and folding down the place, 
I sighed and wished mine were Fortunio's case. 
Or that some fairy would bestow the piize. 
So I might spurn the earth and cleave the skies. 
Uplifted high as the dizzy heavens be. 
Then downward speed to earth, and heaven again, and thee ! 

So sitting in the lamp-light's pensive gloom, 
Methought sweet perfumes floated in the room. 
Link after link of revery's golden chain 
Stretched o'er the waste that lay between us twain ; 



AN EVENING REA^ERY. 149 

Tumultuous raptures every fibre thrilled 
With love intense. And lo ! I found the wish fulfilled ! 

I was with thee ! thy presence filled the place, 
And I was standing gazing on thy face ; 
Near thee, yet sad, my spirit seemed to wait, 
Like the lorn Peri at the golden gate ; 
But with averted look you turned to part, 
And then methought the pulse had stopped within my heart. 

I saw thee lift the dew-drooped roses up, 
I saw thee raise the lily's pearled cup, 
I marked the loving tendrils round thee cling, 
And high above the wild-bird's welcoming ; 
The very sky thy presence bent to greet, 
The very sunshine seemed as if 'twould kiss thy feet. 

Then with a sigh I spake : "And has thy heart 
For me not left one little nook apart. 
One shaded, secret spot, where I may come 
And comfort find — and peace ; and call it — home '^ 
Hast thou, in pity, none ? or must my fate 
Still be to wander on, unloved and desolate ? " 

Unanswered, back my fainting spirit flew ; 
O'er the broad page the flowery fretworlf grew : 



150 AN EVENING REVERY. 

The lamp waxed bright, the crabbed text appeared, 
And old Fortunio, with his silver beard, 
Gleamed in the marge amid th' emblazoned flowers. 
While from mine eyes fell tears like parting April showers. 



ON THE HABITS OF IRISHMEN. 

" In what part of her body stands Ireland ? " — Shakspeake. 

rPHE Green island of Erin, which should more properly 
be called the Eed island of Ire, is situated off the 
northwest coast of England. It is about two hundred 
and seventy-eight miles in length, by one hundred and 
fifty-five in breadth, difiering therein from the brogue of 
the country, which is as broad as it is long. It is inhab- 
ited by a race known familiarly as Irishmen. Its principal 
exports are linens, whiskey, and emigrants, the two latter 
usually going together, the former by itself It is also 
famous for its breed of bulls, specimens of which, pontifi- 
cal and otherwise, may be found in any history of Erin : 
passim. 

Ireland is also celebrated for its wit and poverty : two 



152 ON THE HABITS OF IRISHMEN. 

words which have become synonyms in almost every lan- 
guage. Its cleanliness is proverbial, the very pigs being as 
clean, if not cleaner, than their owners ; while in regard 
to honesty, we are assured by Swift " that the children 
seldom pick up a livehhood by stealing until they arrive 
at six years old ; " although he confesses they get the 
rudiments much earlier. The cultivation of vegetables 
is an object of national interest in Ireland, especially the 
shamrock and shillelah ; the latter, in fact, may be seen 
flourishing all over the island. As to vermin, if there be 
any truth in history, St. Patrick gave them their quietus 
in the year 526 ; then, or thenabout : I am not critical 
as to the exact date, but a traditional something to that 
effect has been running in every Irishman's head since the 
epoch of the Saint's visit in that century. 

Ireland is also famous for sobriety, although the Maine 
Law has not yet been introduced : "for how," says Pat, 
" can we have a ^ Maine Law ' upon an island ? Besides, 
we could only carry it out at the point of the bayonet, 
which would be the biggest bull poor Paddy ever yet 
made in the way of philanthropy ! " But there is another 
reason. It is embodied in a legend of St. Patrick, and a 
legend with an Irishman is as good as an axiom with a 
mathematician. It is this : — 



ON THE HABITS OF IRISHMEN. 153 

" You have heard, I suppose, long ago. 

How the snakes in a manner most antic 
He thrapsed afther the pipes to Mayo, 

And then drown'd them all in the Atlantic ! 
Hence, not to use wather for drink 

The good people of Ireland detarmine, 
And with mighty good reason, I think, 

Since St. Phadeick has filled it with varmin, 
And vipers, and other such stuff ! '' 

Perhaps no people in the world possess more of the 
'^ amor patrice" than the inhabitants of this interesting 
country. Thousands come to our shores every week who 
would live or die for ould Ireland, bnt who would neither 
live nor die in ould Ireland : it being a notion with Pat 
that the best way to enjoy himself at home is by going 
abroad. This patriotic and philosophical sentiment has 
been sometimes emulated in the land of the free and the 
home of the brave. 

In foreign climes two arts, two sciences, engage the 
attention of the Hibernian : Horticulture and Architec- 
ture. Passing along the streets, the spectator is struck 
with facades of beautiful buildings in process of erection, 
adorned with picturesque Paddies in alto relievo, or beholds 
them swarming on domes like bees, excavating like moles, 
bridging and damming like beavers, and like 



154 ON THE HABITS OF IRISHMEN. 

" The bird of summer 
The temple-haunting martlet," 

approving ^' each jutty, frieze, buttress, and coign of van- 
tage, by his loved mansionry." " Where they most breed 
and haunt (says Shakspeare) I have observed the air is 
delicate [" 

Horticulture is a passion with Paddy^ It is himself 
that makes his way through the. world with Pomona in his 
arms. Strip him of his hoe, cast his hod to the winds, let 
every rung of his ambitious ladder be scattered to the cor- 
ners of the earth, and Pat has still a resource. See him 
laden with golden oranges, with fragrant bananas, with 
cocoa-nuts that resemble his own head when clipped with 
the sheep-shears, with embossed and spiky pines ! Not 
indigenous, but tropical fruits ; -exotics, like himself And 
did any living being ever see him eat a fruit ? Never ! 
To him they are sacred. As well might you persuade the 
circumcised Levite *to eat the shew-bread. 

Pat believes in the usefulness of meat, but was there 
ever seen an Irish butcher ? His tender disposition pre- 
vents him trafficking in his household gods. He is more 
than a Brahmin in that respect. If you live in the coun- 
try and lose your cow, or a favorite ram stray from the 
iold, look for it among your Irish neighbors. In those 



ON THE HABITS OF IRISHMEN. 155 

I'ude cottages, displaying on their outer walls the ragged 
ensigns of poverty, is hidden the jewel of charity. From 
pure compassion your lo, or Aries, has probably been shel- 
tered in the most comfortable and secluded part of some 
Irishman's barn. 

Irish mechanics are not common. To be sure there are 
tailors and shoemakers who speak the language of Brian 
Borheime, but they puzzle not their heads with more ab- 
struse and scientific mechanical pursuits. Many as we find 
perishing annually by steamboat and railroad disasters, no 
Hibernian has ever bethought himself of any thing to pre- 
vent the explosion of boilers. If he did, in all probability 
he would get it on the wrong end, and make matters worse 
instead of better. Whether it arise from his haughty 
Spanish or Scythian blood, I know not, but Pat has never 
made one useful invention since the beginning of the 
world : and in calamities like the above, as he has done 
nothing for his fellows, his loss is not considered as a pub- 
lic disaster : they give a list of the rest of the sufferers, 
and the Paddies are usually thrown in. 

I am inclined to believe Pat will find ^^ Stame" a more 
powerful antagonist than his present ally, and enemy, 
England. To be sure he is often found on the track of 
improvements, but the ratio of his velocity. is not in pro- 



156 ON THE HABITS OF IRISHMEN. 

portioii to the square of the distance. The consequence is 
an aflfair with the cow-catcher, in which he usually comes 
off second best. This however might be easily obviated by 
keeping outside the rails ; but his ruthless enemy, Uke the 
grim Afrite in the eastern tale, ever assumes new shapes, 
the most formidable of which is the most recent. Stame 
enters the arena, with a mighty pair of arms and a mighty 
shovel, in the shape of an excavator ! How can a real 
Paddy compete with a steam-iMddj ? One convulsive 
throb of the iron muscles, and a ton of earth drops from 
the enormous spade ! 

I have touched on, or rather liinted at, two virtues 
peculiar to Patrick — honesty and sobriety : but there is 
yet an unnamed virtue belonging to him, which everybody 
will recognize. It is his modesty. An Irish blush is the 
most cunning sleight of Nature's hand. 



LA BELLA ENTRISTECID A. 

RENDERED FROM THE SPANISH OF J. Q. STJZARTE. 

PKETTY Nina, why this sorrow 
In thy life's auspicious morning ? 
Must thy cheek its paleness borrow 
From the ashen hues of sorrow, 

When thy youth's bright clay is dawning ? 

Why with hidden ill repineth 

That pure virgin heart of thine ? 
Heart where grace and love combineth, 
Free from stain, as star that shineth 

Through the azure crystalline. 

Why should eyes like thine be shrouded 

In their tearful radiate fringes ? 
Eyes, whose brightness when unclouded 



158 LA BELLA ENTRISTECIDA. 

Shineth like the moon unshrouded. 
When her beams the lakelet tinges. 

Thou, in thy sweet pensive dolor, 

Still more beauteous seem'st to me : 
Ah, I see the truant color 
Chase the gloomy shades of dolor 
From my bright divinity ! 

Tranquil in thy peace thou sleepest, 

While those waxen-hdded eyes 
Closed upon the world thou keepest, 
And thy soul in rapture steepest 
With the angel melodies. 

In thy tender heart are blended 
Sinless grief, and resignation 
Calm and placid : though unfriended, 
Soon thy suffering will be ended, 
Soon restored thy animation. 

In thy cheek the lucid blushes 
Will return to embellish all ; 
Soon thy lily forehead flushes 
Underneath the rosy blushes 
Of the virgin coronal. 



LA BELLA ENTRISTECIDA. 159 

What from grief brings ever pleasure ? 

What content, from woe and pain ? 
What turns losses into treasure, 
Bringing blisses without measure 

To the sorrowed heart again ? 

' Hope ! ' my Nina — ' Hope,' beloved ! 

Beautiful, beneficent, 
Lo ! your griefs are soon removed, 
Lo ! your faith and virtue proved, 

And the bitter woe is spent. 



ON THE HABITS OF SCOTCHMEN 



"Where Scotland?" 

" I found it by the barrenness, hard in the palm of the hand." — Shakspeaee. 
" Quid immerentes hospites vexas canis ? " — ^Hokace. 



C[ GOTLAND, or North Britain, is a vast country, not 
^ quite so large as Ireland. In length, the kingdoms are 
about equal, but Scotland is less broad, being exceeding 
narrow in some parts. In this respect, a Scotchman is a 
fair epitome of his country. His shibboleth, however, is 
sufficiently comprehensive for mercantile purposes. 

The reason why Scotchmen admire their own language, 
is because they are Scotchmen. " I do not know," says a 
friend, " a more remarkable instance of self-complacency 
than that of a Scotchman priding himself upon mispro- 
nouncing the English tongue.'' This opinion is invidious 
and incorrect, as will be seen by reasons which follow : 

It must strike every one acquainted with this sagacious 



162 ON THE HABITS OF SCOTCHMEN. 

people, that the chief national characteristic is — absence of 
all pretence. Hence arose their zeal in the cause of the 
Pretender. For it is a common proof that men are apt to 
admire in others those qualities which they possess not 
themselves. How else account for those Jacobin spasms, 
those musical manifestations from flatulent bag-pipes, 
which welcomed " Koyal Charlie," the Papist, among the 
blue-nosed Presbyters of the land of Knox ? Had they 
not been sufficiently roasted, toasted, grilled, seared, 
branded, and devilled by the Stuart, sixty years before ? 
Was there no elder remaining whose memory could reach 
as far as the days and deeds of Claverhouse ? None 
whose taste for music had been seriously impaired by the 
demands levied upon their auricular organs by that fasci- 
nating cavaUer ? It is impossible to solve the problem, 
except by the above reason. 

I admire this warHke nation. None love so much to 
breathe the sulphurous clouds of war as the Scotchman. 
The smell of brimstone reminds him of home. He comes 
from his glorious mountains, and goes into the fight bare- 
breeched. Simple in his diet, he finds content in a man- 
ger ; and his admiration of the thistle is only emulated by 
that patient animal so touchingly s^Doken of in the Senti- 
mental Journey. " Nemo me impune lace^it : touch me 



ON THE HABITS OF SCOTCHMEN. 163 

not with impunity : if thou dost, th^ shalt scratch for it," 
is his motto. Wrapped in his plaid and his pedigree ; 
revelling in kilts and kail brose ; alike ready with his 
claymore and usquebaugh ; mth much in his skull and 
more in his mull ; in Highland or Lowland ; whether on 
the barren heath or no less barren mountain, who can help 
loving Sawney, the child of poetry and poverty ? Cole- 
ridge loved him, Charles Lamb loved him. Dr. Johnson 
loved him, Junius loved him, Sydney Smith loved him, and 
I love Sawney, and my love is disinterested. Bless his 
diaphanous soul ! who. can help it ? 

Scotchmen differ from their Celtic neighbors in some 
respects. Pat is a prodigal ; his idea of a friend is 
" something to be assisted ; " a joke is the key to his 
heart. Sawney, on the contrary, is vera prudent ; a 
friend means "something from which to expect assist- 
ance ; " and a joke with him is a problem beyond the 
(Edipus. An Irishman's idea of a head is something to 
hit ; a Scotchman's is something to be scratched. I Ho 
not know of such a thing extant as an Irish, or Scotch 
Jew. Thriftless Paddy with thrifty Mordecai would make 
a compound bitter as salt ; but a Scotch Jew, I fancy, 
would be a hard hand to drive a bargain with. 

Who has not heard of Scottish hospitality ? Did you, 



164 ON THE HABITS OF SCOTCHMEN. 

reader, ever have a Highland welcome ? If not, I will tell 
you what it is. It is a tune upon the national violin ; the 
only thing a stranger gets and carries away from the land 
o' cakes. 

There is a great difference between the Highland and 
the Lowland Scot. Tliis, however, is not so evident when 
they migrate, and get their local peculiarities worn away 
by attrition with civilized life. Yet there is, and always 
has been, a difference between them. We, who live amid 
a population more checkered than the most elaborate speci- 
men of tartan plaid, care very little whether a man's name 
begin with a " Mac'' or not, that being interesting only to 
the directory publisher, and not beariag at all upon social 
or fashionable life. But the question assumes a different 
aspect when Mr. Ferguson recognizes in Mr. McFingal a 
descendant of some former McFingal, who, in a moment 
of playful levity, came down from Ben this, or Ben that, 
with his kilted Kernes and Gallowglasses, in the manner 
so Jjeautifully described by young Norval, and at one fell 
swoop carried off aU his (Mr. Ferguson's) ancestral Fergu- 
son's owsen and kye, his Eryholmes and Ayrshires, his 
Iambics and hoggies, yowes, and whatsoever else of farm- 
stock and implements lay handy and convenient, without 
so much as lea\dng his note of hand for the same. 



ON THE HABITS OF SCOTCHMEN. 165 

Nor does Mr. McFingal feel a tlirob of joy at meeting 
a descendant of that Ferguson who, with a sma' band in 
hodden gray, burked his ancestral McFingal, when in all 
the glory of clan-plaid and sporran, the old gentleman was 
looking very like a male Bloomer without pantalettes, and 
reminded him of previous Httle familiarities by hanging 
him to the nearest tree (if he found one large enough), 
for fear he might never get another chance. These trifling 
family bickerings, however, rarely disturb the outward 
manifestations of courtesy : Mr.^F. meets Mr. McF. with 
the utmost apparent cordiality ; although, I fear, each 
have a secret impulse which had better be left hidden in 
the Scotch mists of dubiety. 

One faculty peculiar to Scotland is the gift of second- 
sight. A remarkable dilation of the pupil when a Scotch- 
man sees a shilling makes it appear in his eyes as large as 
two shillings. This is second-sight. To it may be ascribed 
his wonderful abstemiousness. A red herring in his ecstatic 
vision becomes glorified — it rises to the majesty of a silver 
salmon ; a spare-rib expands to a sirloin, and a bannock o' 
barley meal enlarges to the dimensions of a bride's-cake. 
" You never see,'' says Mr. Strahan to Dr. Johnson, " you 
never see people dying of hunger in Scotland, as you often 
do in England." " That," replied the Doctor, " is owing to 



166 ON THE HABITS OF SCOTCHMEN. 

the impossibility of starving a Scotchman." This anecdote, 
which I give upon the authority of James Boswell, Esq., 
Laird of Auchinleek, will be readily understood, if we ac- 
cept the above postulate. 

That second-sight is a source of great gratification to 
Scotchmen is unquestionably true, but there is one ex- 
ception. Very few of that "volant tribe of bards,'' I take 
it, covet much a second sight of their own country. In 
support of this opinion, let me mention a circumstance 
which occurred some yea* ago in England. A Scotchman, 
for some offence, was sentenced, in one of the criminal 
courts, to be hanged ; but his countrymen, in a petition as 
long as his pedigree, besought the King to commute the 
sentence, to which His Majesty graciously acceded, order- 
ing him to be transported instead. When Sawney heard 
of this Uttle diversion in his favor, in place of expressing 
any signs of joy, he turned, with misery written in every 
lineament of his face, and asked where the King intended 
to send him. "To Botany Bay," was the answer. "Gude 
bless his saul," said Sawney, brightening up at once ; " I 
was afeard I was to be sent hame again ! " 

I look forward to acquiring a taste for Scottish poetry 
as one of the pleasing accomplishments of my old age. 
What I mean, is that written in the melodious dialect of 



ON THE HABITS OF SCOTCHMEN. 167 

the land of Hogg. Scottish prose, I regret to say, has 
scarcely an existence, owing to the fact that every scholar 
in North Britain endeavors to learn English as speedily 
as possible, in order to fulfil his destiny ; for to write 
a History of England seems to be the height of 
Scotch literary ambition. It is a singular fact, but for 
the disinterested labors of their brethren in the North, 
Englishmen would scarcely know any thing of their own 
country. 

Pride of birth is another happy attribute of Sawney. 
No matter how unkindly the north wind maj^ whistle 
through his tattered breeks ; no matter if he have not a 
bawbee in his loof, nor parritch in his pot, he looks back 
through the haze of antiquity, and beholds his illustrious 
Forbears — ^like a string of onions reversed, with the biggest 
ones on top, and the little ones following at a respectful 
distance. 

There is something so naive in Tennant's life of Allan 
Kamsay, that I cannot help bringing it in here, by way 
of an episode : 

"His step-father, little consulting the inclination of 
young Allan, and wishing as soon as possible, and at any 
rate, to disencumber himself of the charge of his support, 
bound this nursling of the muse apprentice to^ wig-maker. 



168 ON THE HABITS OF SCOTCHMEN. 

Lowly as tliis profession is, it has been vindicated by one 
of Kamsay's biographers into comparative dignity, by sep- 
arating it from the kindred business of barber, with which 
it is vulgarly and too frequently confounded. Kamsay was 
never, it seems, a barber ; his enemies never blotted him 
with that ignominy ; his calHng of ' skull-thacker,' as he 
himself ludicrously terms it, was too dignified to be let 
down into an equality with the men of the razor. Thus, 
from the beginning, his business was with the heads of 
men ! " 

If this be not getting cleverly out of a bad business, I 
do not understand Scotch. Having vindicated the young 
" skull-thatcher" from the sharp practice of men of the 
razor, it will not be out of place to lift him a notch liigher 
by another quotation from the same book : " His mother, 
Alice Bower, was daughter of Allan Bower, a gentleman 
of Derbyshire, whom Lord Hopetown had brought to 
Scotland to superintend his miners. In his lineage, 
therefore, our poet had something to boast of, and though 
horn to nae lairdshipj" (he means ^not worth a rap,') ^'he 
fails not to congratulate himself on being sprung from the 
loins of a Douglas.'' 

In the Tropics there are certain porous vessels, through 
which fluids, no matter how impure, distil in bright drops, 



ON THE HABITS OF SCOTCHMEN. 169 

without showing any taint of the offensive contact. In 
like manner, it is easy to imagine the blood of a Douglas 
percolating through the clay of a wig-maker, and de- 
scending to a late posterity in all its original splendor. 
Methinks I see it centuries hence, running its devious 
course through paupers and scavengers ; through poets and 
pickpockets ; rusting in jails, and stagnating in alms- 
houses, but finally blazing out in pristine lustre — flashing 
on panels — glittering on harness — blazing in plaids : the 
same old feudal blood of the Ked Douglas, which throbbed 
in the heart of Allan Eamsay, the skuU-thatcher, and 
author of one of the sweetest lyrical dramas in the 
language ! 

With this grand flourish of bagpipes, I drop the cur- 
tain. In the words of my old friend, " May ye be as wise 
as a serpent, and as cannie as a dove." 







»,« Tl^l Ammii, S~ 



THE LOCKET: AN ANCIENT BALLAD. 

AND thrice lier lily-hand he wrung, 
And kissed her lip so sweet ; 
Then, by the mane and stirrup, swung 
Himself into his seat. 



And as he gallo})ed through the town. 

He said, '^ Though we must part, 
May Heaven prove false to me, if I 

Prove false to thee, sweetheal't.'' 



172 THE LOCKET : AN ANCIENT BALLAD. 

Then by a silken string lie drew 

A locket quaint and old ; 
The ore and braid; with leaves inlaid, 

Shone like a marigold. 

He sighed amain ; then touched the spring ; 

Aside he brushed a tear ; • 
Smiled out ; quoth he, " This pledge may bring 

A cradle or a bier." 

Beneath a leaden, murderous sky, 
- The roaring cannons glow ; 
With thunderous wound they scar the ground, 
While loud the trumpets blow : 

Th^ air is filled with bloody foam, 

The sward is torn and wet 
By ball, and shot, and corpse, and clot, 

And deadly bayonet. 

But where yon band the foeman dares, 

The noblest, bravest, best, 
Is he who in the battle bears 

A locket on his breast. 

He cheers them on ! A bullet speeds ! 

" What means that sudden start ? " 
The mark ! (the locket and the braid,) 

Is driven in his heart. 



THE LOCKET I AN ANCIENT BALLAD. 



173 



They buried him, at vesj)er bell, 

The red kirk- wall beside ; 
The mossed kii"k tolled another knell, 

When there thev bore his bride : 










And thrice an hundred years have flown ; 

Yet what care they or we ? 
'' So here's to him, the gallant knight. 

And to his fair ladye." 



ON SOCIETIES 



FOK 



AMELIORATING THE CONDITION OF THE RICH. 

*' The quality of mercy is not strained : 
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath : it is twice blessed ; 
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.'''' — Shakspeaee. 

TT hath, long been a matter of surprise to me, that amidst 
^ a multitude of benevolent institutions we have none 
for ameliorating the condition of the rich. A large class is 
certainly left out of the sphere of popular charity, which, 
from a careful examination of the smallest camels in vari- 
ous menageries, and a personal inspection of John Hem- 
ming and Son's best drilled-eyed cambrics, seems to stand 
more in need of our sympathies than any people under the 
sun. We may also observe, when one of these highly-re- 
spected citizens is on his way to the other world, he is gen- 
erally followed by an unusual concourse of clergymen ; and 



176 SOCIETIES FOR AMELIORATING THE 

this, like a consultation of physicians, would appear to in- 
dicate that the person was in more than ordinary peril, and 
therefore needed greater care and skill than one within the 
reach of customary medicines. 

I am impelled to make this suggestion more particu- 
larly now, from the fa(5t that this class is growing upon us : 
the e\dl is spreading, and to a greater extent than many 
good j)eople imagine. I have been surprised lately to find 
persons whom I did not imagine worth a copper, freely ac- 
knowledging themselves to be wealthy ; and others, of 
whose poverty I had not a doubt, confessing, with some 
little tribulation and blushing, there was no truth in that 
report ; that money was with them, yea, abundantly. 
Such being the case, a common sense of humanity should 
induce us to relieve our opulent brethren from a portion of 
their distress, in order to prevent extension of the mischief. 
" Homo sum ; nihil humani a me alienum puto." We, who 
' belong to the ancient and honorable order of poverty, must 
not be neglectful of such claims upon us. Yet we should 
do it tenderly and affectionately ; not haughtily, and with 
an air of superiority, but with a grace. 

" Poverty," saith Austin, " is the way to heaven, the 
mistress of philosophy, the mother of religion, virtue, so- 
briety, sister of innocency and an upright mind." True — 



CONDITION OF THE KICH. 177 

I dispute not the words of the Father : but need we there- 
fore exult and vaingloriously contemn those who have 
the misfortune to be rich ? Should we not rather take 
them by the hand, and show them the way to be better, 
wiser, happier ? Should we not teach them that riches 
are only relative blessings ; poverty a positive one ? Should 
we let them struggle on for years and years in a wrong 
path, without endeavoring to pluck them " as brands from 
the burning ? " 

Kiches are only relative : Apax is rich, but Syphax is 
richer : by-and-by, some rude, illiterate fellow, who went 
to California with a spade on his shoulder, returns with 
money enough to eclipse both. Our little domestic flashes 
of wealth pale their ineffectual fires before the dazzling op- 
ulence of the India House ; nay, show Hke poverty itself, 
compared with that treasury of empires, which seems to 
realize 

" the royal state which far - 



Outshone the wealth of Ormus or of Ind." 

And yet Tempus edax rerum : its ingots and tissues, its 
barbaric pearl and gold, will be scattered ; oblivion will set 
its seal upon it ; obscurity, with dust and ashes-»— Stay — 
The India House has a name connected with it — an 
humble and unpretending name — whose influence will 



178 SOCIETIES FOR AMELIORATING THE 

draw pilgrims thither while one crumbHng stone rests 
upon another ; and when the very ground where it now 
stands shall be forgotten, when its illustrious line of name- 
less nabobs lie neglected with the common multitude, 
upon that ancient edifice will rest, like a sunset glory, 
the fame of Charles Lamb. 

I know many are jealous of position, and derive no lit- 
tle self-resj)ect from what they call then- "circumstances." 
But how mutable is pecuniary fame ! Must not the mere 
wealthy occupy a position comparatively degraded in the 
presence of the wealthier ? And how do our wealtliiest 
show beside those nabobs of the India House — those east- 
ern magnificats .^ Very like paupers, I fancy. Should it 
not then awaken the sympathies of the benevolent — the 
unfortunate situation of those " creatures of circum- 
stance ? " 

.There are those, rich as well as poor, superior to this, 
and witlt such, this humane proposition has nothing to do. 
Refinement and courtesy adorn opulence ; benevolence 
moves in a wider sphere, rare accomplishments and ex- 
quisite taste are more attainable, when liberal means unite 
with liberal uses. But ignorance and vulgarity, mean- 
ness and pretence, are hideous in gilded trappings. For 
the benefit of this class I make the suggestion. 



CONDITION OF THE RICH. 179 

It is not in my nature to cast reflections. I could 

scarcely forgive the spiteful allusion of H the other 

day to a certain Gothic building, which he called ^^the 
ecclesiastical rattle for grown-up children ; '' an epithet 
unworthy of a poor man glorying in the power of his lite- 
rary affluence. No, far be it from me to countenance 
uncharitable reflections : let us remember we are all hu- 
man, it is man's nature to err, many cannot help being 
rich ; and souls vibrating between the opera-house and 
such places as the one above alluded to, drifting as it were 
upon tides of harmony any whither, are objects — not of 
our derision — but of our pity. 

My intention had been to refer to the miseries of the 
rich in this paper, but a mere allusion to so fruitful a sub- 
ject will doubtless suggest enough to awaken the sympa- 
thies of the benevolent. Avarice — mere avarice, in itself^ — 
is bad enough ; a powerful astringent, it produces consti- 
pation of the mind, from whence comes ignorance, the 
mother of mischief But Avarus dies and endows bene- 
volent institutions, and thereby the world is bettered. It 
is the tinsel show of real or affected wealth ; its currents 
of folly, its ebbs and flows, tides, eddies and whirlpools ; 
its generations, rising up in young misses who have not 
left off the rocking motion acquired in the cradle ; its 



180 SOCIETIES FOR AMELIORATING THE 

squab-dandies, stilting along on legs you might thrust in 
your double-barrel gun ; its elders, with a reversion in 
Greenwood for the benefit of their heirs ; it is this show, 
this pageant, which appears to the philanthropist pitiable 
beyond the mimic efforts of the stage, the fictions of ima- 
gination, or the supplications of the professional pauper 
who begs, with God knows how much, content in his heart. 
I fear / also may be amenable to the charge of 

" boasting poverty, with too much pride," 



as Prior hath it, and therefore will turn to the main part 
and body, or rather head, of my subject. 

I propose to the benevolent, to establish societies for 
amehorating the condition of the rich. I would suggest 
that a board of directors be appointed, with visiting com- 
mittees, to inquire into the condition of the more opulent 
families, to call upon them personally, and give such advice 
and assistance as their several cases seem to require. 

To the board of visitors, I would refer the motto above 
quoted : 

" The quality of mercy is not strained : 
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath : it is twice Messed ; 
It blesseth him that gives and him that taTces^ 

Therefore take wliat vou can, and be merciful. 



CONDITION OF THE RICH. 181 

I would recommend an asylum to be provided for those 
whose opulence is excessive, and at the same time whose 
mental incapacity prevents them taking proper care of 
themselves. 

I would suggest the purchase of substantial woollen 
garments for those who need them ; gymnasiums for 
youth ; and that a proper care be had for the moral 
culture of both sexes. 

But, above all, I suggest the immediate organization 
of the society. The miseries of the rich afford so copious 
a field for the exercise of true benevolence, that I leave 
the matter to those more experienced and better able to 
advise than the writer. 



WHERE IS THE HOLY TEMPLE? 



WHERE is the holy temple — where the fane 
Which sin-sick souls may seek, for heavenly grace, 
And casting off all earthly care and pain. 
Find resting-place ? 



Where, as upon the sacred mount, the dew 

G-ently descends the parched grass reviving ; 

The blessing falls — the sinner feels anew 
His faith sur^"^"*n«: ! 



'to 



Where is the faithful watchman ? Where the tower 
From whence the cry is heard, " Repent and live ? " 

Where is the manna, that in latest hour 
ReHef can give ? 



184 WHERE IS THE HOLY TE]p>LE ? 

Not in these marble piles of sculptured glory, 
Where the lulled sense alone is gratified ; 

Of earthly pomp the vain repository, 
And human pride. 

Not where the organ peals, the voices soar. 

In sounds voluptuous from harmonic choirs ; 

Not where the saint-emblazoned windows pom- 
Irradiate fires. 

Here shall the lowly hope ; the haughty quail ; 

The guilty melt with soul-subduing fears ? 
The secret, drooping heart at length unveil 

Its urn of tears ? 

Alas ! not here abides the dispensation ; 

Seek then thy closet ; weeping, kiss the rod ; 
Pour out thy grief with earnest supplication 

And trust in God ! 



ALLITERATION. 

'' TT7HY the art of poetry should be so much neglected, 
' ' and the inferior art of music so extensively cultiva- 
ted in this age of intelhgence ? " is a question more easily 
asked than answered. There are many young ladies, and 
young gentlemen, able to discourse, almost pedantically, of 
cliromatics and dynamics; of staccatos and appoggiaturas ; 
who would not be ashamed to confess they had not the re- 
motest idea of an iambus, or a dactyl. I speak now of 
the elementary principles of those arts ;' of acquaintance 
with the mechanism, by which certain effects are produced 
in either. I do not think a mere knowledge of the cate- 
chism of verses sufficient to create a Byron or a Shak- 
speare. I am sure cultivation in music has produced very 
few Mozarts or Kossinis, this side the Atlantic. But 



1 86 ALLITERATION. 

if we aspire neither to be gi*eat poets, nor gi-eat composerSj 
why devote so much attention to acquire the art of the lat- 
ter, and neglect entirely the art of the first ? 

Why not understand the iambic measure as well as 
conunon time ? 

Why not a trochee as well as a crotchet ? 

Why not language in its divinest form as well as 
sound ? 

Why not cultivate conversation as well as music ? 

The essays of Edgar A. Poe, and "Imagination and 
Fancy," by Leigli Hunt, are not only valuable, but agree- 
able text-books, relating to an art, a knowledge of which 
should be one of the indispensable requisites of polite edu- 
cation. As for the cast-aside prosodies of the school-room, 
they had better be left where they are. They hold freedom 
of expression in bondage and load invention with shackles. 
They are retrospective, not introspective. They teach us 
what has been done, not what may be done. 

Imagination and fancy, pathos and humor, are born, not 
made.* But these rare gifts take various forms of expres- 
sion. The poet sees a moonlight and describes it. The 
painter paints it. Harmony is translated differently by 

* I believe wit must be cultivated. It is not a natural faculty, like 
t)»e othere. A child is never witty but by accident. 



ALLITERATION. 187 

sculpture and music. But the same feeling for, or sense of 
beauty, pervades either and all. 

Imagination takes a poetic form through versification. 
Ben Jonson, in his " Discoveries," observes this. " A po- 
em, as I have told you, is the work of the poet ; the end 
and fruit of his labor and study. Poesy is his skill or 
craft of making ; the very fiction itself, the reason or form 
of the v^ork. And these three voices difier as the thing 
done, the doing, and the doer ; the thing feigned, the 
feigning and the feigner ; so the poem, the poesy- (or- ver- 
sification), and the poet." 

Versification is made up of many elements. In this 
art as in others, certain latent principles exist, even in the 
rudest productions. These have been more or less develop- 
ed by various poets in various ages. To one of these ele- 
ments, which is in truth only a minor embellishment, I pur- 
pose to devote this essay. 

That alliteration, as an element of the art, has been 
carefuUy studied by almost all English poets, must be ob- 
vious to every reader of English poetry. The illustrations 
I shall present, by way of simplifying the matter will be 
confined to a single letter of the alphabet. The liquid con- 
sonant "jL " will suit the purpose best, because it is a favor- 
ite, and justly so, on account of its euphony. 



188 ALLITERATION. 

" The letter Z/' says Ben Jonson, " hath a half-vowel- 
ish sound," and " melteth in the sounding." Many of the 
softest words in our language hold it (so to speak) in solu- 
tion. Amiable, voluble, golden, silvery, gentle, peaceful, 
tranquil, glide, gLode, dimple, temple, simple, dulcet, 
blithely, vernal, tendril, melody, lute, twinkle, lonely, 
stilly, valley, slowly, lithe, playful, linger, illusion, lovely, 
nightingale, philomel, graceful, slumber, warble, pool, pen- 
sile, silken, gleam, lull, are all more or less expressive of 
softness, sweetness, and repose. To tliis may be objected, 
that the word " hell ! " with its double consonants, is sug- 
gestive of neither. Tliis is not because the word itself is 
at fault ; the meaning becomes confounded with the sound. 
K friend suggests " that if hell were the name of a flower, 
it would be thought beautiful." *"• Helen" is a pretty 
female name, and it is united with the story of her who 
won the golden apple on Mount Ida — the loveliest woman 
of the world. 

Are not drowsily, dreamily, lullaby, super-euphonisms ? 

"How sweet the moonlight sZeeps upon this bank! " 

What can replace those two delicious words of that match- 
less line of Shakspeare ? — 

" raoonZight sZeeps ! " 



ALLITERATION. 189 

" That kiss went tingling to my very heart. 
When it was gone, the sense of it did stay ; 
The sweetness cZing'd npon my hps all day." 

" Cling'd upon my lips ! '' — exquisite Dryden ! 

Do we not apprehend, in these lines of Tennyson, a 
sense of beauty quite as dependent upon the melody as 
upon the image ? — 

" Many a night I saw the PZeiads, rising thro' the me^Zow shade, 
GZitter like a swarm of fire-fZies tangZed in a siZver braid." 

Our own great poet, Drake, alliterates in the musicallest 

verses ; — 

" And in AZuga's vaZe beZow 
The giMed grain is moving sZow, 
Zike yellow moonZight on the sea, 
"When waves are sweZZing peacefuZZy." 

Coleridge's famous stanza begins — 

" A damseZ with a duZcimer." 



Poe, too, in The Sleeper- 



" At midnight, in the month of June, 
I stand beneath the mystic moon ; 
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, 
ExhaZes from out her goZden rim. 



1 90 ALLITERATION. 

•'xVnd soft^3' dripping, di'o}> Ly drop, 
Upon the quiet mountain's top, 
Stea?s drowsify and musicaZZy 
Into the universal vaWey." 

Coleridge again — 

'' Her gentle /imbs she did undress 
And lay down in her ZoveZiness." 

Of which Leigh Hunt remarks, " the very smoothness and 
gentleness of the limbs, is in the series of the letter ^s." 

" A Zady so richZy ckd as she, 
BeautifuZ exceedingly." 

Let us take a few examples from Milton : — 

" Zap me in soft Zydian airs." 

" In notes with many a winding bout 
Of Zink^d sweetness Zong drawn out." 

In Gray's Elegy we find — 

" Now fades the gZimmering Zandscape on the sight, 
And aZZ the air a soZemn stiZZness hoZds, 
Save where the beetZe wheeZs liis droning fZigl)t, 
And drowsy tinkZingS ZuZZ the distant foZds.-' 

A marvellous collocation of /'s. 



ALLITERATION. * 19X 

It lingers throughout the pages of Shelley — 

" Zike a high-born maiden 
In a palace tower, 
Soothing her Zove-?aden 
Soul in secret hour, • 

With music sweet as Zove, that overflows her bower." 

" Zike a gZow-worm goMen 
In a dell of dew. 
Scattering unbehoMen 
Its aeriaZ hue 
Among the fZowers and grass, which screen it from the view." 

There are many instances in Spenser ; I will quote 
one as an ensample : 

" The gentZe warbZing wind low answered to slIV 

And Marlowe — 

^' Mine argosies from Alexandria, 
Zoaden with spice and si^s, now under sai?, 
Are smoothly gliding." 



Kaleigh — 



" By shaZZow rivers, to whose falls 
MeZodious birds sing madrigafe." 



We observe Shakspeare quotes this. 



192 . ALLITERATION. 

How glibly the pen of that old gourmand, Ben Jonson, 
wrote — 

" J myseZf will have 



The beards of barbeZs served instead of saZads, 
OiZed mushrooms, and the sweZZing, unctions paps 
Of a fat pregnant sow, newfy cut off." 



Milton again — 



" To sport with AmaryZZis in the shade, 
Or with the tangZes of ISTesera's hair," 

Need I point out the charming echo in these lines ? 
Sometimes there is a musical ring in repetition — 



" dance their whistZing ringlets in the wind." 

Shakspeare. 

" And whan he rode, men mighte his bridaZ here, 
GingeZing in a whistZing wind as cZere, 
And eke as Zoude, as doth the chapeZZ helV — Chaucer. 

" Hear the sZedges with their hells — 
SiZver beZZs ! 
What a worZd of merriment their meZody foreteZZs ! 
How they tinkZe, tinkZe, tinkZe, 

In the icy air of night ! 
WhiZe the stars that oversprinkZe 
AZZ the heavens, seem to twinkZe 
With a crystaZZine deZight ; 



ALLITERATION. 193 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Eunic rhyme. 
To the tintinnabuZation that so musicaZZy weZfe 

From the beZZs, beZZs, beZZs, beZZs, 
BeZZs, hells, hells — 
From the jingZing and the tinkZing of the beZZs." — ^Poe. 

" My beautifuZ AnnabeZ Zee." — Ibic. 

I might, in addition to these, make other selections, 
from various writers, but it is scarcely necessary. Doubt- 
less many will suggest themselves to the reader. It is 
easy to quote texts in support of any theory, however fan- 
ciful ; but these selections, embracing some of the most 
celebrated lines in the language, remarkable for sweetness 
and fluency, have one property in common — they are all 
alliterations of the letter I. 

" And would you infer from that," quoth the reader, 
"it is necessary to have such alliterations in every poem, 
to make it pass muster ? " 

By no means ; I wish only to direct your attention to 
one element, which, as I have said before, is but a minor 
embellisJiment in versification. I have taken up a single let- 
ter — you have the whole alphabet before you, with imagi- 
nation, fancy, humor, pathos, and sentiment to boot. If 
we do not know the value of a trochee, an "anapaest, or an 



194 ALLITERATION. 

iambus, then, as far as we are concerned, have Shakspeare, 
Milton, and Spenser written poetry in vain. They might 
as well have limited themselves to prose. 

" And do you think those great poets made these aUit- 
erations knoivingly and systematically ? " 

Amigo mio, either they knew what they were doing, or 
they did not. If they merely blundered into beauty, then 
their merits have been somewhat overrated. I am incHned 
to believe those master weavers of verse understood the fab- 
ric, woof and warp, quite as well as any threadbare critic 
or grammarian — perhaps better. 

The poetic student will find many valuable hints in 
Ben Jonson's '^ Discoveries,'' from which I have quoted 
briefly. I will conclude this essay (the amusement of a 
long winter evening) by another excerpt from the same 
source. He says, speaking of poetry — 

" The study of it (if we will trust Aristotle) offers to 
mankind a certain rule and pattern of ^^dng well and hap- 
pily, disposing us to all civil offices of society. If we will 
believe Tully, it nourisheth and instructeth our youth, de- 
lights our age, adorns our prosperity, comforts our adver- 
sity, entertains us at home, keeps us company abroad, 
travels with us, watches, divides the time of our earnest 
and sports, shares in our country recesses and recreations, 



ALLITERATION. 195 

insomuch as the wisest and hest learned have thought her 
the absolute mistress of manners, and nearest of kin to 
virtue. And whereas they entitle philosophy to be a rigid 
and austere poesy ; they have, on the contrary, styled 
poetry a dulcet and gentle philosophy, which leads on and 
guides us by the hand to action, with a ravishing delight, 
and incredible sweetness." 
rare Ben Jonson ! 



ALBUM VEKSES. 

LOYE WITHOUT HOPE. 

LOVE without hope ! poor cheerless flower 
Come, in this hapless bosom rest : 
Whisper, at midnight's weary hour, 
" Though unrequited, not unblest." 

Teach me to love, and yet forego ; 

Teach me to wish, and yet forbear ; 
To hopeless live, and hopeless know 

The dead, dumb, sweetness of despair. 

Thus, in the calm lake's peaceful breast 
The golden clouds reflected rest ; 

But the mad waves more rashly woo. 
And lose the image they pursue. 



198 ALBUM VERSES. 



TO SARAH. 

!Ti^, in the ancient Hebrew, 

Meaneth " mistress, dame, or wife," 
So it seems your fate is settled. 

For the matrimonial life. 

Home, they say, is next to heaven, 
That's a thing well understood ; 

And, I think, Miss Sally 

You can make the adage good. 

But, while life is in its spring-time, 
Keep that little heart of thine 

Like some precious relic, hidden 
In a pilgrim-worshipped shrine. 

Though, from lips of fondest lover. 
Words of soft persuasion breathe, 

Let ten years at least roll over 
Ere you wear the orange-wi-eath. 

Ten good years, and then I'll wager 
Twenty thousand pounds upon it, 

Sweeter maid than Sarah, never 
Blushed beneath a bridal bonnet. 



ALBUM VERSES. 199 



TO MARY. 



Dear Mary, though these lines may fade, 
And drop neglected in the dust, 

Yet what I wish, my little maid. 
Will surely come to pass, I trust. 

May all that's purest, rarest, best. 

Be imaged ever in thy heart ; 
And may thy future years attest 

Thee innocent, as now thou art. 

Fair seem the flowers, fair seems the spring. 
Bright shines the sun — ^the starry band. 

Life flies, with inexperienced wing. 
O'er blooming fields of Morning-land. 

But where yon rosy summit glows 
Forbear to tempt the aspiring flight. 

For storms those painted clouds enclose. 
And tempests beat yon glittering height. 

Ah, no — the illusive wish forego — 
This precept learn, by nature given. 

From mountain's tops, we gaze helow^ 
But in the vales, we look to heaven. 



200 ALBUM VERSES. 



Then be thy guide the golden truth ; 

Keep thou thy heart serene and young ; 
And in thy age, as in thy youth, 

Thou'lt still be loved and still be sung. 



THE LAY-FIGUEE. 

TN the ancient city of Cordova, in one of its narrowest 
-■■ streets (the Galle de San Pedro), there formerly hved 
an aged artist, by name Don Diego Gonzales. The two 
tilings he most prized in the world were his daughter and 
a lay-figure, the latter being at that time the only one in 
the city. And sooth to say, his passion for his lay-figure 
was such that it was produced in all his pictures, which 
made them to be sought after as those of an original and 
unique school, different from any thing in nature ; in fact, 
so much enamored was he of this thing of wood, canvas, 
and sawdust, that he scarcely thought of his daughter, 
whose eyes were like brown garnets, her waist like the 
stalk of a lily, and her lips like the cleft in a rose with the 
early dew on it. Truly the fable of Pygmalion was re- 



202 THE LAY-FIGURE. 

vived in Calle de San Pedro, in the ancient city of Cor- 
dova. 

Not far from his studio there lived a young painter, 
who had often seen the beautiful Isadora (for such was the 
name of Don Diego's daughter), as she went to mass and 
confession, and oftentimes he had sought in vain to pierce 
through the gloom of her lattice with his eyes, or meet her, 
in his visits to the old man. But all his efforts ended in 
disapjDointment, until, by dint of laying siege in regular 
form, that is by sonnets and sighs, accompanied by catgut 
and wire, he succeeded in ensnaring the bird ; I mean, he 
gained her heart completely. The old man took no notice 
of these tender affairs, so much occupied was he with his 
lay-figure. But for all that, Don Juan de Siempreviva 
knew very well there was no hope of obtaining Don Diego's 
consent ; the old man's experience with artists being such 
that I verily believe he would almost have burnt his be- 
loved lay-figure before he would have given liis daughter 
to the best of that profession in Cordova. Knowing, how- 
ever, that kindness of heart was a prominent trait in Don 
Diego's character, Don Juan laid a plan to gain his ends. 

It was, to get the loan of the lay-figure ; and by dint 
of perseverance, not unmixed with flattery, he succeeded. 
Now, as it was the custom of Don Diego, after breakfast and 



THE LAY-FIGURE. 20 



o 



prayers to sit in his studio absorbed in his work until sies- 
ta, and as most of the time the head of the lay-figure was 
covered by a cloth to keep it from the flies, it was agreed 
that Isadora should adopt the dress of the figure, cover 
her head with the cloth, take its place some morning, 
and thus be carried off by four stout porters to the lodgings 
of Don Juan, where the priest and all things being ready, 
the knot could be tied, and a trip to Madrid, followed by 
penitence and forgiveness, would make a very pretty little 
romantic afiau", without doing harm to any body. 

The expected morning came at last, and you may be 
sure Don Juan waited with some impatience for his prize. 
At last the porters entered, bearing it upon a narrow plat- 
form, and as soon as their backs were turned, he drew with 
impatience the cloth from the face, and beheld not the 
beautiful Isadora, but the waxen features of the lay-figure ! 
Isadora not being able to effect the change in time, the 
lay-figure was borne away, and I assure you the old man 
could not have vented more lamentable groans had it been 
in reality the body of his own daughter. 

Now surprising as it may seem^ soon after, Don Juan 
became as much enamored of the lay-figure as Don Diego 
had been. It was the subject of all his studies, and the 
ideal that found a place in all his productions, so that the 



204 THE LAY-FIGURE. 

connoisseurs of Cordova were puzzled mtli every new pic- 
ture, some pronouncing it to be a genuine Gonzales, while 
others as stoutly maintained it to be a Siempreviva. In 
the meanwhile the beautiful Isadora, utterly neglected, 
pined alone mtliin her chamber, without so much as a 
word or look from the faithless Don Juan. And the end 
of it was, there arose a deadly hatred between the old and 
the young artist concerning the lay-figure ; and there was a 
hostile meeting in the Paseo, outside the walls, in which 
Don Diego was killed ; and soon after Don Juan being ap- 
prehended and executed, the beautiful Isadora died of grief. 
Her tomb is in the burial-place behind the great cathedral, 
with this inscription ; 

' Joven, Bella, de todas adorada, 
Dejo la tierra por inejor morada.' 

But the lay-figure still remains ; and to this day you 
can find copies of it in many pictures in and out of Cordova. 



T . 

""DRING-/' saith the Hindoo wife, "the flame," 
^ " And pile the crackling faggots high ; 
In joy and woe, in pride and shame, 

With thee I lived — with thee 111 die — 
In streams of fire my soul shall be 

Upborne to thee ! " 

So, round my heart, consuming love 
The dark, funereal pyre uprears ; 

Onward the rolling moments move, 

, A.nd Death — the Merciful ! appears, — 

But oh — the bitter pang ! to be 
Kemoved from thee. 

Oh, could my heart again be still. 

Though 'twere the grave that held my mould, 



206 TO . 

I'd seek the shadowed mystery, — 

The silent chamber, dark and cokl ; — 

Yet life — dear life ! would priceless be 
If shared with thee. 

But now, the flames to ashes turn ; 

The wine to blood — oh ghastly sight ! 
The pall half drapes the sculptured urn 

Where faintly burns yon spectral light, 
And shadowy phantoms beckon me 

Away — from thee. 

Come to the house ! 'tis deadly still — 
Sombre, and low, and chiU, and wet, 

With earth-worms writhing o'er the sill. 
Earthy, and mouldy, smelleth it ; 

'Tis mine — my mansion reared for me 
By thee !— By thee ! 



MY BOY IN THE COUNTRY. 

METHINKS I see his head's round, silky crop, 
Like a blown thistle's top ! 
Or watch him walk — with legs stretched wide apart, 

Dragging a small red cart ; 
Or hear his tiny treble, chirp in play, 

With, "0 go way!" 
Or, where the crystal eddies swirl the sand, 

I see him stand 
To plump the polished pebbles in the brook 

With steadfast look, 
While his wee, waggling head, with nothing on it 

But a sun-bonnet. 
Looks like the picture of a Capuchin 

A round frame in. 
Now with his tender fist he rubs his eye j 

" Plague take that fly!" 



208 A SONNET. 

Or hovering Bessy claps a sudden veto 

On some moschito 
While he lies sleeping, in his shaded crib, 

Sans stocking, bib ; 
His toes curled up so sweet that I could eat 'em. 

How could I beat him ? 
How lay a finger on that soft brown skin. 
With many a blue vein interspersed therein ? 



A SONNET. 

A FIRST AND LAST ATTEMPT AT THIS SPECIES OF COMPOSITIOX. 

A SONNET ? WeU, if it's within my ken, 
I'll wTite one with a moral ! When a boy. 
One Christmas day, I went to buy a toy, 
Or rather, " we," I and my brother Ben ; 
And, as it chanced that day, I had but ten 
Cents in my fist, but as we walked — " Be Goy 
Blamed ! if we didn't meet one Pat McCoy, 
An Irishman — one of my father's men, 
Who four more gave, which made fourteen together. 
Just then I spied, in most unlucky minute, 
A pretty pocket wallet : like a feather 
My money buys it ! Ben, begins to grin it : — 
" You're smart," says he, " you've got a heap of leather. 
But where's the cents you ought to ha' put in it ? " 



WIT AND HUMOE. 

TN attempting to define wit and humor, it is necessary 
to premise, that they will be considered as active and 
independent faculties of the mind ; and not as abstract 
qualities, — such as may be comprehended in a bon-mot or 
an epigram. In other words, the endeavor will be to arrive 
at the intention of the epigrammatist , not to discuss the 
merits of the epigram itself. For the forms of wit and 
humor are so various, it will scarcely be possible to form a 
just conclusion, except by separating the conception and 
intent, from the expression and the effect. Swift, it is 
said, is a witty writer. Why ? Because he wrote witty 
poems. Why are the poems witty ? The answer is, be- 
cause they were written by Swift. Very reasonable, to be 
sure ; but the object of this essay is to ascertain if there 
be not another solution to the last question. 



210 WIT AND HUMOR. 

The great Swedish philosopher, Linnaeus, or some other 
philosopher equally great, in attempting to classify the 
animal kingdom, found it rather perplexing to mark out 
the boundaries of the grander divisions. That, once accom- 
plished, it was an easy and beautiful task to subdivide it 
into genera, species, and varieties. But animals would be 
alike in some respects, and differ in others, in spite of sci- 
ence. Chickens flew, but so did bats and beetles. Chick- 
ens and beetles laid eggs, — ^bats would not ; but wingless 
terrapins did. Some animals had warm blood, some had 
cold, and yet, in other respects, were alike. Shad had 
scales, but the armadillo wore them also. Bears were 
covered with hair, and so were caterpillars and tarantulas. 
Geese had quills, penguins had none, but the porcupine 
had plenty. Elephants carried a flexible appendage at 
one end, and monkeys at the other. The giraffe fancied 
he could get along best by having his two longest legs in 
front, but the kangaroo preferred having them abaft. The 
female otter, living partly on the land, and partly in the 
water, nourished her young like the wife of the Rev. John 
Rogers ; but the pelican, with the same habits, had nothing 
to put into the mouths of young pelicans but fish. 

To find one property, which certain animals had, and 
others had not, was the question ; but how discover it in 



WIT AND HUMOR. 211 

the apparent chaos of tastes ? At last the problem was 
solved : — Shad, elephants, bats, armadillos, kangaroos, 
had back-bones — ^beetles, spiders, and terrapins had none. 
Their relative positions were at once defined. " The 
greater class," said Linnaeus with a wave of his hand, 
"shall be called 'vertehrata/ and, thank heaven, I am 
one of them." 

In like manner this attempt shall be, to express the 
yeneric definition of wit : and in like manner, the generic 
definition of humor ; so that, however variously presented, 
wit may be identified by some property common to all its 
sj)ecies, and humor by one property common to all its 
varieties. 

It may be as well to observe here, in order to forewarn 
the reader, that although the subject may seem suggestive 
of mirth, it will be found a very serious one before he gets 
through with it. A gentleman who sometimes attempted 
essays, said he never felt so miserable as when he was 
writing one on happiness ; and therefore it is best, by 
a timely caution to suggest, that in this analysis of wit 
and humor, it must not be looked upon as a necessary 
consequence, for the writer to give any proofs of possessing 
either faculty himself 

With these brief remarks, I will proceed to a consider- 



212 WIT AND HUMOR. 

ation of the subject. The term " wit," in its eldest signi- 
fication, implied generally ^' ^'ationality,' and so we still 
understand it in its derivations — "to wit," (to know,) 
''half-witted," "witless," "witling," etc., etc. In the 
time of Dryden it expressed fancy, genius, aptitude. Thus 
the famous couplet— 

" Great wits to madness surely are allied, 
And thin partitions do their bounds divide," — 

is almost an amplification of that "'fine frenzy" Shake- 
speare has deHneated, and " wit " in this sense is merely a 
.synonjTue of " imagination." Locke, who was cotemporary 
with Dryden, defines " wit " as lying most in the assem- 
blage of ideas, and putting those together with quickness 
and variety, wherein can be found any resemblance or con- 
gruity, thereby to make up pleasant pictures and agreeable 
visions in the fancy. This definition of wit he places in 
opposition to judgment, which he says " lies quite on the 
other side," in separating carefully one from another ideas 
wherein can be found the least difference, thereby to avoid 
being misled by similitude, and by affinity to take one 
thing for another. Addison quotes this passage in the 
Spectator, and says : " Tliis is, I think, the best and most 
philosophical account that I ever met with of wit, which 
generally, though not always, consists in such a resem- 



WIT AND HUMOK. 213 

blance and congruity of ideas as this author mentions. I 
shall only add to it, by way of explanation, that every 
resemblance of ideas is not what we call wit, unless it be 
such an one that gives delight and surprise to the reader. 
These two last properties seem essential to wit, more par- 
ticularly the last of them." To come down still later, 
Dugald Stewart endorses Locke, with this addition, 
(" rather," as he says, " by way of explanation than 
amendment,") that wit impKes a power of calling up at 
pleasure the ideas which it combines ; and Lord Kames 
denominates wit a quahty of certain thoughts and expres- 
sions, and adds : " The term is never appHed to an action 
or passion, and as little to an external object." 

From the preceding illustrations, we learn the term 
"wit" was not formerly used in its present Hmited sense : 
in fact, Addison gives us a hst of different species of wit, 
such as " metaphors, similitudes, allegories, enigmas, para- 
bles, fables, dreams, visions, dramatic tvritings, burlesque, 
and aU methods of illusion," from which we may gather, in 
his tune wit was an expression of considerable latitude, 
embracing all ideas of a fanciful or whimsical nature. Dr. 
Johnson describes wit " as a kind of concordia discours ; 
a combination of dissimilar images, or discovery of occult 
resemblances in things apparently unlike ; " which Leigh 



214 WIT AND HUMOR. 

Hunt, in his essay on wit and humor, amplifies into " the 
arbitrary juxtaposition of dissimilar ideas, for some lively 
purpose of assimilation, or contrast, or generally of both." 
Why this would not apply as well to humor as to wit is 
not so apparent. It is scarcely fair to suspect Mr. Hunt 
did not quite understand the distinction between them 
himself. 

I could, in addition to those already named, quote 
many other authorities, but they would bring us no nearer 
to the points in question. The gist of all that has been 
said concerning the subject-matter is contained in the defi- 
nitions already given. I must refer here, however, to one 
book, which is so admirable in its way, so full of the witty 
and humorous, so acute in detecting the errors of all other 
writers upon the subject, and so far from being right in its 
own solution of the question, tha^ the perusal of it pro- 
duces the veiy efiect which its author claims to be the 
end of all wit, namely, " surprise ! " The " Lectures on 
Moral Philosophy," by the Keverend Sydney Smith, as an 
exemplar of wit, has no superior in our language ; but 
when he tells us that " whenever there is a superior act of 
intelligence in discovering a relation between ideas, wliich 
relation excites surprise, and no other liigh emotion, the 
mind will have a feeUng of wit," we must beg leave to 



WIT AND HUMOR. 215 

differ from the conclusion ; for wit sometimes excites ad- 
miration, which may be considered a high emotion ; and 
we have known instances where it has produced a feeling 
of implacable revenge. In the example which he gives 
immediately after, he says : 

"Why is it witty, in one of Addison's plays, when the 
undertaker reproves one of his mourners for laughing at a 
funeral, and says to him : ' You rascal, you ! I have 
been raising your wages for these two years, upon condi- 
tion that you should appear more sorrowful, and the higher 
wages you receive, the happier you look ! ' " Here is a rela- 
tion between ideas, the discovery of which implies supe- 
rior intelligence, and excites no other emotion than ' sur- 
prise.' " 

Now the incongruousness of ideas here is calculated to 
raise an emotion of mirth as well as surprise, and we are 
pleased, not because it is witty, but because the accidental 
ambiguity of the words turns the reproof into a jest. 
True wit is never accidental, but always intentional. 

Compare the above with the following, which would be 
humorous if it were not very witty : "A gentleman owned 
four lots adjoining a Jewish burying-ground, in the upper 
part of the city. The owners of the cemetery wanted to 
purchase these lots, but as the price they offered was no 



216 WIT AND HUMOR. 

equivalent for their value, the gentleman refused to accept 
it. At last the trustees hit upon what they considered a 

master-stroke of poHcy, and meeting Mr. Y a few 

days afterward, said : ' Ah, Sir, we tink you will not get 
any body now to Hve on your property up dere. We have 
buyed lots on de odder side, and behint, and it's Jews' 
burying-ground all around it.' ' Very well,' replied Mr. 

V , ^ I shall begin to build to-morrow.' ' Build ! ' 

echoed the trustees, taken aback by the cool manner in 
which this was said, ^ why, now,' with a cunning smile, 
' what can you put up dere, mit a Jews' burying-ground 

all around ? ' 'A surgeon's hall ! ' repHed Mr. Y . 

* Just think how convenient it will be ! You have made 
my property the most desirable in the neighborhood. — 

Grood morning.' The reader may imagine Mr. Y 

received his own price for the lots, which were speedily 
converted into a Golgotha, and the principal trustee now 
lies buried in the midst of them, with a white marble 
monument protruding out of his bosom, large enough to 
make a resurrection-man commit suicide." 

In his definition of humor the Rev. Sydney Smith 
says : 

" So, then, this turns out to be the nature of humor ; 
that it is incongruity which creates surprise, and only mr- 



WIT AND HUMOE. 217 

prise. Try the most notorious and classical instances of 
humor by this rule, and you will find it succeed." 

If this be the nature of humor, namely, " that it is in- 
congruity which creates surprise," we will try the rule, and 
see how it agrees with the assertion. In the tragedy of 
King Lear, when the poor old monarch finds Kent in the 

stocks he says : 

" Ha! 

Mak'st thou this sport thy pastime ? " ^ 

And this exclamation is caused by a feeling of incon- 
gruity, for he discovers Kent has been treated in a manner 
directly opposite to what he expected, and the sudden clash 
of the two contending ideas produces surprise. By the 
application of the above rule, this should be humorous, but 
I confess it is difficult to believe it. 

Let us take another example : Macbeth is assured, in 
the witches' cavern, that " none of woman born shall harm 
Macbeth ! " and again : 

" Macbeth shall never vanquished be, until 
Great Birnara wood to high Dunsinane hill 
Shall come against him." 

Yet when Birnam wood does come to Dunsinane, in a 
most accountable manner ; and afterwards he hears Mac- 



218 WIT AND HUMOR. 

duff had entered the world by the Caesarean operation, he 
does not seem particularly struck with the humor of the 
tiling, nor is he giving way to a burst of hilarity at the un- 
expected relation of ideas, when he utters : 

" Accursed be the tongue that tells me soj 
For it hath cowed my better part of man ; 
And be these juggling fiends no more beheved, 
That palter with us in a double sense ; 
That keep the word of promise to our ear, 

And break it to our hope^ 

• 

The truth is, surprise is sometimes the effect of wit 
or humor, and nothing more ; and we cannot predicate of 
wit that it is surprise, any more than we can predicate of a 
triangle that it is equilateral. 

Let us now consider the second part of our subject. 
Like wit, the meaning of the term, "Humor," has 
changed, and we seek in vain for any correspondence be- 
tween its present, and former significance. Thus Ben Jon- 
son's " Every man in liis Humor," is equivalent to e\eTY 
one to his taste, " chacun d son goiU/' — it implied whim- 
sies, fancies, conceits (such as we find in Corporal Nym), 
temper, turn of mind, petulance, etc., etc. By Addison it 
was used as a synonyme of wit, but rarely, and it is only 
within a few years that the word humor has been used as the 



WIT AND HUMOR. 219 

generic term of a peculiar class of ideas. I have already 
given the Reverend Sydney Smith's definition, and shall 
add here that of Leigh Hunt, which certainly is a very dif- 
ferent thing from wit as we understand it. 

" Humor, considered as the object treated of by the hu- 
morous writer, and not as the power of treating it, derives 
its name from the prevailing quahty of moisture in the 
bodily temperament ; and is a tendency of the mind to 
run m particidar directions of thought or feeling more 
amusing than accountable, at least in the opinion of so- 
ciety." 

I opine that nothing short of a patent digester can 
make any thing of this definition. With all deference to 
the author of " Rimini," I am compelled to believe he has no 
more idea of humor, than a Bush-boy has of clairvoyance. 
Taking out " the quality of moisture in the bodily tempera- 
ment," which is sHghtly irrelevant, and straightening the 
involution of the sentence, it stands thus : " Humor, con- 
sidered as the object treated of, is a tendency of the mind 
to run in particular directions of thought or feeling more 
amusing than accountable." If this be not the very idea of 
humor the Philistines had, when they called for Samson 
to make them sport, then I am much, very much mistaken. 
For when we cease to consider humor as an active principle, 



220 WIT AND HUMOR. 

and only discover it in the weakness of one, who may be 
making that sport for us, which is death to him, we must 
reflect, it is the ludicrous association of ideas in our own 
minds that produces the effect. Thus, although the antics 
of a monkey, contrasted with the remarkable gravity of his 
physiognomy, may make us laugh, we can scarcely accuse 

him of being a humorist ; but if a man have a monkey 
running loose in his mind, and imitate him, then we may 
safely set him down as one. 

In the Westminster Review for October, 1847, there is a 
criticism upon this very essay from which I take the follow- 
ing : " Humor is felt to be a higher, finer, and more genial 
thing than wit, or the mere ludicrous ; but the exact de- 
finition of it has occasioned some difficulty. It is the com- 
bination of the laughable with an element of love, tender- 
ness, sympathy, warm-heartedness, or affection. Wit, 
sweetened by a kind, loving expression, becomes humor. 
Men who have little love to their fellows, or whose lan- 
guage and manner are destitute of affectionateness, and soft, 
tender feeling, cannot be humorists, however witty they 
may be. There is no humor in Butler, Pope, Swift, Diy- 
den, Ben Jonson, or Voltaire."' 

In estimating humor, let us admit this passage, with 
some grains of allowance ; upon the whole it is ingenious 



WIT AND HUMOR. 221 

and elegantj as a description of humor, perhaps the best 
that can be found. 

I have thus shown what has already been said in re- 
gard to the subject, by way of clearing the ground for the 

definitions which follow : 

Wit, is an operation of the mind directing the action 
of the ludicrous^ for the attainment of some specific object. 

Humor, is an operation of the mind directing the action 
of the ludicrous to the production of mirth. 

And herein humor differs from wit, which always 
has an ultimate object beyond the mere mirth it creates. 
Thus, wit is antagonistic — ^humor, genial. Wit is con- 
centrated, sharp, rapier-like ; humor, prodigal, diffuse ; 
in fact, the very wantonness of mirth. Wit converges 
to a focus, like a lens. Humor distorts, multiplies, and 
grotesquely colors like a prism. Wit is always percep- 
tive ; humor may be conscious or unconscious ; a man 
is very much in earnest with himself, and yet we see 
his words or actions in a humorous light, like the odd 
reflections made by an imperfect mirror. Such men 
are unconscious humorists ; what seems ludicrous to us, 
is very sad reality to them ; and often, when we get a 
ghmpse of their inner nature, even while the smile is yet 
upon our lips, we feel a touch of pity as deep as tears. 



222 WIT AND HUMOR. 

Mr. Kicliard Swiveller, "wending his way home after "a 
night " with Mr. Quilp and the case-bottle, may be taken 
as a fair specimen of an unconscious humorist. 

" Left by my parents at an early age," said Mr. S^viv- 
eller, bewaihng his hard lot, " cast upon the world in my 
tenderest period, and thrown upon the mercies of a delud- 
ing dwarf, who can wonder at my weakness ! " " Here's 
a miserable orphan for you. Here," said Mr. Swiveller 
raising his voice to a high pitch and looking sleepily round, 
"is a miserable orphan." 

Now an actor to represent this, or an author to deline- 
ate it, would be a conscious humorist. 

Humor and pathos are often twin-born. What is 

natural, homely, child-like; little episodes of smiles and 

tears, 

" Dreams of our earliest, purest, happiest years," — 

are inextricably blended with these divine emotions. 
I cannot forbear copying entire those beautiful Hnes by 
Oliver Wendell Holmes, " The Last Leaf," so finely il- 
lustrative of both. 

" I saw him once before, 
As he passed by the door, 

And again 
The pavement stones resound 



WIT AND HUMOR. 223 

As he totters o'er the ground 
With his cane. 

" They say that in his prime, 
Ere the pruning knife of Time 

Cut him down, 
Not a better man was found 
By the crier on his round 
Through the town. 

" But now he walks the streets, 
And he looks on all he meets 

Sad and wan ; 
And he shakes his feeble head, 
That it seems as if he said, 
They are gone. 

" The mossy marbles rest 
On the lips that he has pr est 

In their Noom, 
And the names he loved to hear 
nave been carved for many a yea/r 
On the tomb, 

" My grandmamma has said, — 
Poor old lady she is dead 

Long ago, — 
That he had a Roman nose. 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow. 



224 WIT AND HUMOR. 

" But now his nose is thin, 
. And it rests upon his chin 
Like a staff; 
And a crook is in his back, 
And a melancholy crack 
In his laugh. 

"I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 

At him here ; 
But his old three-cornered hat, 
And his breeches, and all that, 
Are so queer ! 

" And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree, 

In the spring ; 
Let them smile, as I do now. 
At the old forsaken bough, 

Where I cling." 

Here is indeed humor and pathos blended. But there 
is no such thing as pathetic wit. Perhaps nothing marks 
the boundary line between wit and humor more accurately 

than this. 

Let me add another distinction. Satire, whether for 
good or evil, is a tremendous implement — a cautery, actual 
and potential. See its effect in Punch (which I take to be 
the most influential pohtical paper in the world) ; what 



WIT AND HUMOR. 225 

refuge is there for the offender, when Prentice launches his 
ghttering arrow from the Louisville Journal ? How can 
Mr. Deuceace answer the charge preferred against him by 
Mr. Ohawles Yellowplush ? What now, and for ever, is 
the world's opinion of " His G-race, the Duke of G-rafton/' 
after the letters of Junius ? But satire is a property of 
wit — ^not of humor ; we may ridicule a man, but there is 
no such word as " ludicrize " in the language. 

In support of the first postulate, viz., that wit always 
has some object beyond the mere creation of mirth, let us 
select Hudibras as an example. This unrivalled poem 
abounds in passages of exquisite wit and humor. The de- 
scription of the knight himself is perhaps the most felicitous 
mingling of both that can be found in the whole range of 
English literature. I might glean from it a golden sheaf 
of quotations, simply illustrative of the humorous, although 
Hudibras is generally considered "pure wit," And so it 
is, as a whole. When we take in view the object for 
which it was written, when we remember its intention, and 
its effect upon the Puritans of those days, then every ab- 
surdity brightens into points of keenest satire, the pages 
fairly blaze with wit, and its burning ridicule is almost 
appalhng. 

Pope's Dunciad, Dryden's MacFlecnoe, and Byron's 



226 WIT AND HUMOR. 

English Bards and Scottish Eeviewers, are the only com- 
positions in our language that deserve to be classed with 
Hudibras. They belong to the heroic school of wit ; epics, 
compared with every thing else of a similar nature ; and 
as holding the highest rank, we can safely estimate by each 
and every one of them the value of the above proposition. 

As in the physical world we find connecting links be- 
tween the animal, vegetable, and mineral kingdoms, so in 
the worid of letters we find compositions which combine 
wit,, fancy, and imagination. For example, nn the follow- 
ing epigram : 

" Bright as the Sun, and, as the Morning, fair ; — 
Such Cloe is — but common as the Air ! " 

The direct compliment in the first line, so strikingly 
reversed by the satire of the second, would be ludicrous but 
for the fanciful elegance of the whole. 

. In the definition of wit, the ludicroics is assumed to 
be a necessary element. I take this word for want of one 
more expressive in our language. I use it to represent the 
" essence of mirth ; " as a principle, larger and more com- 
j)rehensive than " ridicule.'' This principle I hold to be 
latent in all kinds of wit. Whether it come in the shape 
of compliment or satire, somebody feels the divine emotion 
of mii'th. Whether in the stiletto innuendo, or the sharp, 



WIT AND HUMOR. 227 

small-sword repartee ; whether it lie, like salt, on the tail 
of an epigram, or baffle wisdom in the intricate pun, some- 
body may smart, but somebody will smile. Even in the 
graceful form of compliment, wit demands this tribute. 
At the time Pope borrowed the diamond from Chesterfield, 
and wrote, on a wine-glass, 

" Accept a miracle instead of wit ; 
See two dull lines by Stanhope's pencil writ;" — 

imagine the faces around that table. When the " Eape 
oj the Lock " was written, imagine its effect in the fashion- 
able circles of that age. When Henry of Navarre presented 
one of his Generals to some foreign Ambassadors, and said, 
" Grentlemen, this is the Marechal de Biron, whom I present 
equally to my friends and enemies," imagine the secret 
emotion that every Frenchman felt in that courtly circle. 
And when the Spanish Minister was shocked at the famili- 
arity of certain officers, who were pressing around that 
chivalric King, although the reply may remind us of Ivry 
and the white plume ; yet that gallant speech — " You see 
nothing here ; you should see how close they press upon me 
in the day of battle,'' — must have awakened in those offi- 
cers a sensation, better expressed in their faces, than in the 
plastic countenance of the Spaniard. 

Let me select another specimen — the generous example 



228 WIT AND HUMOR. 

of Lord Dorset, who, when several celebrated men were 
debating about harmony of numbers, beauties of invention, 
etc., proposed to make a trial of skill, of which Dryden 
was to be the judge. His Lordship's composition obtained 
the preference. It was as follows : 

"I promise to pay John Dryden, Esq., or order, on demand, the sum of five hundred 
pounds. Dorset." 

There is a kind of legal wit, too, in Blackstone, deserv- 
ing of notice, such as his definition of special bailiffs, who, 
he says, " are usually bound in a bond for the due execu- 
tion of their office, and thence are called hound bailiffs; 
which the common people have corrupted into a much more 
homely appellation." I admire this pleasant evasion of an 
unsavory phrase. 

The laconic note of Dorset is in happy opposition to 
one written by Frederic the Great. A Jew banker, who, 
fearful of subsidies and loans, sent a letter, petitioning the 
King, " to allow him to travel for liis health,'' received in 
answer : 



" Dear Epbraim, nothing but death shall part us. 

Frederic." 



While we cannot fail to perceive, in all the above ex- 
amples, that element which we call the ludicrous, or mirth- 
moving power, yet we find in each and every one a pur- 



WIT AND HUMOR. 229 

pose ; tlie arrow is not sliot into the air ; it is aimed at 
the blank. We recognize it in compliment, we feel it in 
innuendo, we detect it in irony, it stings in the epigram, 
and sparkles in repartee, and still we apprehend it as wit ; 
Wit ! the younger and more polished brother of that, 
which has but one name — humor — good humor. 

Whoever is familiar with the writings of Jean Paul 
Kichter, will recognize, in the following, a page from an 
admirable book, " Flower, Fruit, and Thorn-Pieces." It 
is an example of that kind of humoi' which is the divine 
philosoj^hy of a sensitive heart. G-ermans are the most 
analytical of modern writers. Let us illustrate this sub- 
ject by a quotation from one of the best : 

" Siebenkas was all day long a harlequin. She (his 
wife) often said to him, ^ The people will think you are 
not in your right senses ; ' to which he would answer, ^ And 
am I ? ' He disOTised his beautiful heart beneath the 
grotesque comic mask, and concealed his height by the 
trodden-down sock ; turning the short game of his life into 
a farce and comic epic poem. He was fond of grotesque 
comic actions from higher motives than mere variety. In 
the first place, he delighted in the sense of freedom expe- 
rienced by a soul unshaclded by the trammels of circum- 
stance ; and secondly, he enjoyed the satirical conscious- 



230 WIT AND HUMOR. 

ness of caricaturing rather than imitating the follies of 
humanity. While acting he had a twofold consciousness ; 
that of the comic actor and of the spectator. A humorist 
in action is but a satirical improvisatore. Every male 
reader understands this ; but no female reader. 

I have often wished to give a woman, who beheld the 
wliite sunbeam of wisdom decomposed, checkered, and 
colored from beliind the prism of humor, a well-ground 
glass which would burn this variegated row of colors white 
again; but it would not answer. The looman's delicate 
sense of the becoming is scratched and luounded, so to say, 
by every thing angidar and unpolished. These souls bound 
up to the pole of conventional propriety, cannot compre- 
hend a soul which ojdjdoscs itself to these relations ; and 
therefore in the hereditary realms of women — the courts, 
and in their Idngdom of shadows — France, there are seldom 
any humorists to be found, either of the pen or in real life," 

But of all creations of humor, what is there to com- 
pare with the hero of Cervantes ? Don Quixote may 
move us to mirth by his guileless simplicity, but his nature 
is noble, beyond any artifice of mere wit. For the spring 
of all his actions is what we most admire in humanity — 
valor, love of justice, patience and fortitude ; even his ivant 
of prudence is almost a virtue. Strange that it should 



WIT AND HUMOR. 231 

excite our laughter to behold the aberrations of an enthu- 
siast, who believed him^lf to be ''the defender of the 
innocent, the protector of helpless damsels, the shield of the 
defenceless, and the avenger of the oppressed/' 

"What story is so pleasing and so sad." 

Is there not something in this madness nearer heaven 
than much of worldly wisdom ? 

But in our admiration of the relics of chivalric life, 
who can forget thee, thou modestest of men, " My Uncle 
Toby ? " What is more admirable than thy goodness of 
heart, thy tenderness, thy patience of injuries, thy peace- 
ful, placid nature, '' no jarring element in it, which was 
mixed up so kindly within thee ; thou hadst scarcely a 
heart to retaliate upon a fly ! " 

" I'll not hurt thee," says my Uncle Toby, rising from 
his chair, and going across the room with the fly in his 
hand ; " 111 not hurt a hair of thy head. Go," says he, 
lifting up the sash and opening his hand as he spoke, to 
let it escape ; "go, poor devil 1 get thee gone, why should 
I hurt thee ? this world is surely wide enough to hold both 
thee and me." 

In direct opposition to this stands the character of 
burly Falstaff. No one would lay a straw in the way of 



232 WIT .AND HUMOR. 

Uncle Toby, but how we relish 'Hlie buck-basket/' the 
'^ cudgel of Ford/' and the castigation at ^' Gadshill ; " 
nay, if we bear in mind how exquisitely selfish Falstaif is, 
we can even admire the reply of King Harry, beginning 
with : 

" I know thee not, old man : fall to thy prayers. 
How ill whit« hail's become a fool and jester." 

Such is the nature of wit. We love Charles Lamb, 
Goldsmith, Irving, Fielding, Dickens, our young, admirable 
humorist, Shelton, and glorious Dan Chaucer ; but we 
have no such feeling toward Pope, Swift, Dryden, Chester- 
field, or the author of " Vanity Fair.''"^' 

Dante at times is witty, and his wit is tremendous ! 
In his journey through hell he meets the shade of a friar, 
who tells him, that the soul of a living man, one ''' Branca 
Doria, who murdered his father-in-law, Zanclie,'' is there. 

" Nay," replies Dante, ^" you do not tell the truth. 
Branca Doria is on earth ; eats, walks and sleeps like any 
other man.'' 

" Nevertheless," returns the friar, " his soul has been 

* Personcdbj, Mr. Thackeray is one of tlie most gonial and amiable of 
men. But however brilliant his Avit, it has no warm, sunn}' side. He 
succeeds in creating very detestable people in his novels, for whom <nii' 
does not feel the least sympatky. The satire, however, is perfect. 



WIT AND HUMOK. 233 

many years here in hell, and in place of it, a devil inhabits 
his body above/' ••'■ 

Coleridge's reinarks, written on the cover of Charles 
Lamb's copy of Donne's Satires, which I give briefly, 
are severely mtty : " The irregular measure of this verse 
is only convertible into harmony by the feeling of the reader. 
I would hke to hear a Scotchman read Donne. If he read 
it as it should be read, I would think, either that he was 
not in reality a Scotchman, or that his soul had been geo- 
graphically slandered by his body." 

We must not consider, however, this caustic quahty as 
inseparable from wit. True, in all the forms of innuendo, 
satire, irony, and epigram, we may discover it ; but hap- 
pily, there is a species of wit as innocent as it is delightful. 
PerhajDS there is nothing more agreeable than being in com- 
pany with a person who possesses this faculty, with suffi- 
cient amiability and good sense to keep it in subjection ; 
the perfection of strength is in the reserve of power ; 
and he is an exquisite swordsman who can disarm, with- 
out wounding, his adversary. 

If, in this essay I have touched but lightly upon the 
innocency of wit, which certainly is its most charming at- 

* "This," says Leigli Hunt, "is the most tremendous lampoon, as far 
as I am aware, in the whole circle of literature," I believe it. 



234 WIT AND HUMOR. 

tribute, it is because instances are rare, and we should be 
chary in commending too much a fticulty, which sometimes 
has the power to turn even 

'* a mother's pains and benefits, 



To laughter and contempt." 
Thus while we enjoy 

'^ converse calm, with wit shafts sprinkled round. 



Like beams from gems, too light and fine to wound, ''- 



we must make a reservation in favor of a more genial qual- 
ity ; not that we love wit less, but that we love humor 
more : for humor is of nature, and wit is of artifice. 

The limits of an essay will not permit any further con- 
sideration of this fruitful subject, else I might name one 
whose wit is such that '^ 'tis a common opinion that all 
men love him." 

" That last half stanza — it has dashed 
From my warm lip the sparkling cup ; 

The light that o'er my eyebeam flashed, 
The power that bore my spirit up 

Above this bank-note world — is gone," 



I trust is not prophetic ; for in the whole wide world lives 



WIT AND HUMOK. 235 

not one possessed of such powers of wit, humor and fancy, 
as he ; nor is there any one to whom his own lines will ap- 
ply hetter : 

" N'one knew thee, but to love thee, 
ISTone named thee, but to praise." 



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